Like I said in my previous blog post, Anne Sexton was troubled with mental and emotional disorders that influenced much of her writing. As I read through many ('many' meaning like 2830923) of her poems, I noticed a few common themes running through them: the constant struggle between living and dying; how to be a mother; society's view on women; and, a feeling of alienation. It's no surprise that these themes appear--honestly, I believe that Sexton always felt lonely.
There's a difference between being alone and being lonely. Alone means to be separated or removed from others, while lonely means destitute of sympathetic or friendly companionship. Alone occurs while you're on your own, but lonely can occur when you're in the midst of people. Imagine being a group of loved ones. If you were lonely, you would not feel the love and support they could give you, and the depression within you would multiply. To me, being alone means you can still find comfort in other people; you just prefer not to. Lonely is a state of complete hopelessness.
Sexton had a few friends--her therapist, Maxine Kumin, and Sylvia Plath, among others--that could comfort her while they were with her. Otherwise, Sexton was left with her abusive husband and the two girls she didn't know how to parent. Would one not feel lonely in this situation? As part of her therapy, Anne would write about her feelings. One of (what I believe to be) her most vivid poems, "Wanting to Die," traces this feeling of alienation to the extreme--the urge to commit suicide.
Since you ask, most days I cannot remember.
I walk in my clothing, unmarked by that voyage.
Then the almost unnameable lust returns.
Even then I have nothing against life.
I know well the grass blades you mention,
the furniture you have placed under the sun.
But suicides have a special language.
Like carpenters they want to know which tools.
They never ask why build.
Twice I have so simply declared myself,
have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy,
have taken on his craft, his magic.
In this way, heavy and thoughtful,
warmer than oil or water,
I have rested, drooling at the mouth-hole.
I did not think of my body at needle point.
Even the cornea and the leftover urine were gone.
Suicides have already betrayed the body.
Still-born, they don't always die,
but dazzled, they can't forget a drug so sweet
that even children would look on and smile.
To thrust all that life under your tongue!-
that, all by itself, becomes a passion.
Death's a sad Bone; bruised, you'd say,
and yet she waits for me, year after year,
to so delicately undo an old wound,
to empty my breath from its bad prison.
Balanced there, suicides sometimes meet,
raging at the fruit, a pumped-up moon,
leaving the bread they mistook for a kiss,
leaving the page of the book carelessly open,
something unsaid, the phone off the hook
and the love, whatever it was, an infection.
I walk in my clothing, unmarked by that voyage.
Then the almost unnameable lust returns.
Even then I have nothing against life.
I know well the grass blades you mention,
the furniture you have placed under the sun.
But suicides have a special language.
Like carpenters they want to know which tools.
They never ask why build.
Twice I have so simply declared myself,
have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy,
have taken on his craft, his magic.
In this way, heavy and thoughtful,
warmer than oil or water,
I have rested, drooling at the mouth-hole.
I did not think of my body at needle point.
Even the cornea and the leftover urine were gone.
Suicides have already betrayed the body.
Still-born, they don't always die,
but dazzled, they can't forget a drug so sweet
that even children would look on and smile.
To thrust all that life under your tongue!-
that, all by itself, becomes a passion.
Death's a sad Bone; bruised, you'd say,
and yet she waits for me, year after year,
to so delicately undo an old wound,
to empty my breath from its bad prison.
Balanced there, suicides sometimes meet,
raging at the fruit, a pumped-up moon,
leaving the bread they mistook for a kiss,
leaving the page of the book carelessly open,
something unsaid, the phone off the hook
and the love, whatever it was, an infection.
Holy poop nuggets, Batman!
After reading the poem, how do you feel? Like suicide is something beautiful? Because that's almost what the speaker believes, as well. The speaker calls suicide an "unnameable lust" and a "passion." She twice attempted to end her life, and twice failed--maybe the third time's the charm. She attempted so many times before the final ending. Maybe this indicates an addiction to suicide? Not necessarily completely ending one's life, but may to the sense of release and relief it brings?
Just like "the Starry Night," there is plenty of imagery in this poem. The personification of suicide, or death, as an enemy that can be eaten is so freaking awesome. Also, stanza three about the builders? Brilliant. I especially love the last images the reader is given--a page of a book left lying open, the phone off the hook, the love turned to an infection. The placement of "something unsaid" is peculiar, now that I think about it. It could either apply to the line before hand (a unread page left open), the phrase following it (a phone off the hook, like no contact can be made), or stand on its own. If it was placed in a different spot, would there be a new meaning?
I don't really want to over-analyze anything. I'm one of those believers that once you analyze a poem too much, it loses its meaning. So I'll leave you here to mull over what you think the poem means, and I'll sit from my computer screen and probably cry. (Honestly though, if I keep reading this much Sexton, I'm just going to keel over one day. There's only so much a girl can take.)
Until next time, darlings!
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