Wanting to Die (and no, I don't mean me)

Look who's back already it's not John Green, sorry to disappoint. Back with even more Anne Sexton (see, I told you I've been obsessed. I can't tear myself away).

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.

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!

The Starry Night

I haven't written in a while (seriously, more than a month? How did I let that happen?) since I've been super duper busy (no but really I've barely been home) so first let me tell you: It's great to see you! Not that I can actually see you, but you understand my point. How have you been? I want to hear all about your past few weeks!

So in the midst of all my rehearsals and papers, I've had the opportunity to read poems by Anne Sexton. If you've never heard of her or read her work, do it...just prepare yourself with food that makes you feel happy. She's pretty intense (and that's an understatement). 

Anne Sexton was born in the late 1920s up in Massachusetts. She went through high school and some of college before she eloped with a man who would later abuse her. The birth of her daughters as well as her modeling job led her to become extremely depressed, and her first attempt at suicide was in 1955. After a few more attempts, she succeeded in ending her life in 1972. Joyful, isn't it? But of course, the best poets always have some deep, secret past which leads them to write some of the most amazing poetry. Anne was no different.

Her poetry started as a form of therapy--her therapist recommended she write about what bothered her throughout the day. This has been common practice for many years and, as a student of this myself, it really does help. In Anne's case, it allowed her release her frustrations, worries, and desperation. Without this outlet, she most likely would have succeeded in killing herself years earlier. 

Anne is often referred to as a confessional poet, a poet whose work is autobiographical and focuses on taboo topics such as abortion, masturbation, and suicide. Other confessional poets were Sylvia Plath (a friend of Anne's), Robert Lowell, and Allen Ginsberg, and Anne is frequently ranked among them. This can be deceiving, however, as Anne said she did not necessarily write about her own life, All of her poems do have an air of truth about them. One of my favourite poems by Anne is "The Starry Night," and, even though I'll probably ramble on for four thousand words, I'll tell you why.

I've always been a fan of mixing genres of art together, and one of the best ways to do this is through ekphrastic poetry, poetry that focuses on the emotional and physical responses to another work of art. "The Starry Night" is, quite obviously, a response to Vincent Van Gogh's Starry Night. Van Gogh is probably my favourite painter because of his remarkable ability to translate the hell he lived in to the canvas. Sexton was another artist with that ability, and the combination of both definitely leads to interesting reactions!

The poem begins with an epigraph (like a preface, but usually a quote) by Vincent Van Gogh in a letter to his brother. The epigraph, pasted below, relates art to religion. In a way, Sexton used this idea in all of her writing, frequently bringing up themes like religion. 

That does not keep me from having a terrible need of—shall I say the word—religion. Then I go out at night to paint the stars.

While Van Gogh was painting Starry Night, he was in a mental institution. Throughout his life until his suicide, he suffered from bipolar disorder and depression. The chaos of his life was often reflected in his work, but in a beautiful way. Starry Night is no exception. The mixing of colours, especially blues and yellows, reveals the beauty Van Gogh was able to capture in a universe so much bigger than anyone expected. He did not see the black of the sky, but instead different blues that swirled into a complex, magical mass created by nature. Sexton was able to do this through her writing, as well.

Here's a copy of the poem for you. Don't read my analysis right after you finish the poem. Just sit, let it sink in for a bit, and then maybe read it again. Sometimes Sexton is best with your own response.

The town does not exist 

except where one black-haired tree slips 

up like a drowned woman into the hot sky. 

The town is silent. The night boils with eleven stars. 

Oh starry starry night! This is how 

I want to die. 

It moves. They are all alive. 

Even the moon bulges in its orange irons 

to push children, like a god, from its eye. 

The old unseen serpent swallows up the stars. 

Oh starry starry night! This is how

I want to die: 

into that rushing beast of the night, 

sucked up by that great dragon, to split 

from my life with no flag, 

no belly, 

no cry.

Intense, no? Take a breather if you have to (maybe eat some food. That always helps.).

What struck me most in this poem (beside the Van Gogh thing) was the personification and imagery. "Black-haired tree," "drowned woman," and the concept of the stars being alive make me squirm. And "The old unseen serpent swallows up the stars;" talk about chills! That alliteration combined with the image of darkness engulfing the stars gets me every time. 

And the refrain. Wow. Okay, Sexton. Tell us how you really feel, because both the diction and the link break don't make it obvious at all...

But can you imagine how she feels, looking up at the marvelous universe in front of her and not being able to join it? To be stuck on earth in a living human form when an afterlife in the stars sounds so much more enticing? Wouldn't it be easier to just leave the painful life she lives and join them?

I doubt there's a time anyone has not felt like this. Gazing up at the sky, how could you not? The universe is so vast and complex, and you're just a tiny human on a tiny planet in a tiny galaxy in a gargantuan universe. The insignificant feeling is unavoidable. Sexton creates a world to which it is easy to relate, as many people have felt the way the speaker does in this poem.

I think that's one of the reasons why I love Anne Sexton as much as I do--not because I've been reading her nonstop for the past two months (which I have been), not because she was a master at her art (which she was), but because she was able to write about her hellish life and still draw readers in. Each person takes something different away when they read a poem for the first time. The fact that Sexton could be so autobiographical and yet allow the reader to feel as if it is their own life is astounding. I only wish I could have that talent one day.