Sylvia Plath
Sylvia Plath was born on October 27, 1932 in Boston, Massachusetts and committed suicide on February 11, 1963 after suffering from depression for many years. She was a great American poet, novelist, and short-story writer. She won a scholarship to Smith College in 1950 and even then she had an enviable list of publications and while at Smith she wrote over four hundred poems (Plath, The Biography Of Sylvia). Sylvia married Ted Hughes, who was another English poet, in 1956 and eventually had two children. In 1960, when Sylvia was twenty-eight, she published her first book called The Colossus in England.
On February 11, 1963, Sylvia Plath succeeded in killing herself with cooking gas at the age of thirty. Two years after her death, Ariel, a collection of some her last poems was published, that was followed by Crossing the Water and Winter Trees in 1971 and in 1981 The Collected Poems was published, edited by none other than Ted Hughes (Plath, The Biography of Sylvia).
Sylvia suffered from depression for most of her adult life and it was apparent from the flood of poems that were released following her death. The poems which Sylvia Plath composed in the weeks and days immediately preceding her death contain some of the most disturbing themes present in Modernist poetry (Richter). In Ariel, an anthology containing her most fervent, emotional, and troubling poetry yet, poems such as "Daddy" and "Lady Lazarus" appall readers with their frank references to death, suicide, mental instability, and the slow, agonizing erosion of the self (Richter).
In the autumn of 1962, only four months before her death in February 1963, Sylvia Plath wrote a cluster of extraordinary poems about Bees. She had taken up beekeeping that June and wrote excitedly to her mother in America to describe the events of attending a local beekeepers’ meeting in the Devon village of North Tawton, where she had moved with her husband, Ted Hughes (Sylvia Plath and the Bees). Plath purposefully changes her poetic tone at the end of Ariel when she uses the natural metaphor of bees to alternatively represent the community which immediately surrounds her in "The Bee Meeting," the chaotic emotions which she experiences in "The Arrival of the Bee Box," and her life as a queen bee in "Stings" and "Wintering" (Richter). Throughout the bee sequence, Plath entertains thoughts of her own death and explores contributing factors, such as an increasingly unsupportive community and her unfulfilling role as a domestic housewife and mother (Richter).
The following are Sylvia's Bee Poems
On February 11, 1963, Sylvia Plath succeeded in killing herself with cooking gas at the age of thirty. Two years after her death, Ariel, a collection of some her last poems was published, that was followed by Crossing the Water and Winter Trees in 1971 and in 1981 The Collected Poems was published, edited by none other than Ted Hughes (Plath, The Biography of Sylvia).
Sylvia suffered from depression for most of her adult life and it was apparent from the flood of poems that were released following her death. The poems which Sylvia Plath composed in the weeks and days immediately preceding her death contain some of the most disturbing themes present in Modernist poetry (Richter). In Ariel, an anthology containing her most fervent, emotional, and troubling poetry yet, poems such as "Daddy" and "Lady Lazarus" appall readers with their frank references to death, suicide, mental instability, and the slow, agonizing erosion of the self (Richter).
In the autumn of 1962, only four months before her death in February 1963, Sylvia Plath wrote a cluster of extraordinary poems about Bees. She had taken up beekeeping that June and wrote excitedly to her mother in America to describe the events of attending a local beekeepers’ meeting in the Devon village of North Tawton, where she had moved with her husband, Ted Hughes (Sylvia Plath and the Bees). Plath purposefully changes her poetic tone at the end of Ariel when she uses the natural metaphor of bees to alternatively represent the community which immediately surrounds her in "The Bee Meeting," the chaotic emotions which she experiences in "The Arrival of the Bee Box," and her life as a queen bee in "Stings" and "Wintering" (Richter). Throughout the bee sequence, Plath entertains thoughts of her own death and explores contributing factors, such as an increasingly unsupportive community and her unfulfilling role as a domestic housewife and mother (Richter).
The following are Sylvia's Bee Poems
The Bee Meeting
Who are these people at the bridge to meet me? They are the villagers - The rector, the midwife, the sexton, the agent for bees. In my sleeveless summery dress I have no protection, And they are all gloved and covered, why did nobody tell me? They are smiling and taking out veils tacked to ancient hats. I am nude as a chicken neck, does nobody love me? Yes, here is the secretary of bees with her white shop smock Buttoning the cuffs at my wrists and the slit from my neck to my knees. Now I am milkweed silk, the bees will not notice. They will not smell my fear, my fear, my fear. Which is the rector now, is it that man in black? Which is the midwife, is that her blue coat? Everybody is nodding a square black head, they are knights in visors, Breastplates of cheesecloth knotted under the armpits. Their smiles and their voices are changing. I am led through a beanfield. Strips of tinfoil winking like people, Feather dusters fanning their hands in a sea of bean flowers, Creamy bean flowers with black eyes and leaves like bored hearts. Is it blood clots the tendrils are dragging up that string? No, no, it is scarlet flowers that will one day be edible. Now they are giving me a fashionable white straw Italian hat And a black veil that molds to my face, they are making me one of them. They are leading me to the shorn grove, the circle of hives. Is it the hawthorn that smells so sick? The barren body of hawthorn, etherizing its children. Is it some operation that is taking place? Is it the surgeon my neighbors are waiting for, This apparition in a green helmet, Shining gloves and white suit. Is it the butcher, the grocer, the postman, someone I know? I cannot run, I am rooted, and the gorse huts me With its yellow purses, its spiky armory. I could not run without having to run forever. The white hive is snug as a virgin, Sealing off her brood cells, her honey, and quietly humming. Smoke rolls and scarves in the grove. The mind of the hive thinks this is the end of everything. Here they come, the outriders, on their hysterical elastics. If I stand very still, they will think I am cow-parsley, A gullible head untouched by their animosity, Not even nodding, a personage in a hedgerow. The villagers open the chambers, they are hunting the queen. Is she hiding, is she eating honey? She is very clever. She is old, old, old, she must live another year, and she knows it. While in their fingerjoint cells the new virgins Dream of a duel they will win inevitably, A curtain of wax dividing them from the bride flight, The upflight of the murderess into a heaven that loves her. The villagers are moving the virgins, there will be no killing. The old queen does not show herself, is she so ungrateful? I am exhausted, I am exhausted - Pillar of white in a blackout of knives. I am the magician’s girl who does not flinch. The villagers are untying their disguises, they are shaking hands. Whose is that long white box in the grove, what have they accomplished, why am I cold. The Arrival of the Bee Box I ordered this, this clean wood box Square as a chair and almost too heavy to lift. I would say it was the coffin of a midget Or a square baby Were there not such a din in it. The box is locked, it is dangerous. I have to live with it overnight And I can’t keep away from it. There are no windows, so I can’t see what is in there. There is only a little grid, no exit. I put my eye to the grid. It is dark, dark, With the swarmy feeling of African hands Minute and shrunk for export, Black on black, angrily clambering. How can I let them out? It is the noise that appals me most of all, The unintelligible syllables. It is like a Roman mob, Small, taken one by one, but my god, together! I lay my ear to furious Latin. I am not a Caesar. I have simply ordered a box of maniacs. They can be sent back. They can die, I need feed them nothing, I am the owner. I wonder how hungry they are, I wonder if they would forget me If I just undid the locks and stood back and turned into a tree. There is the laburnum, its blond colonnades, And the petticoats of the cherry. They might ignore me immediately In my moon suit and funeral veil. I am no source of honey So why should they turn on me? Tomorrow I will be sweet God, I will set them free. The box is only temporary. Stings Bare-handed, I hand the combs. The man in white smiles, bare-handed, Our cheesecloth gauntlets neat and sweet, The throats of our wrists brave lilies. He and I Have a thousand clean cells between us, Eight combs of yellow cups, And the hive itself a teacup, White with pink flowers on it, With excessive love I enameled it Thinking ‘Sweetness, sweetness’. Brood cells gray as the fossils of shells Terrify me, they seem so old. What am I buying, wormy mahogany? Is there any queen at all in it? If there is, she is old, Her wings torn shawls, her long body Rubbed of its plus Poor and bare and unqueenly and even shameful. I stand in a column Of winged, unmiraculous women, Honey-drudgers. I am no drudge Though for years I have eaten dust And dried plates with my dense hair. And seen my strangeness evaporate, Blue dew from dangerous skin. Will they hate me, These women who only curry, Whose news is the open cherry, the open clover? It is almost over. I am in control. Here is my honey-machine, It will work without thinking, Opening, in spring, like an industrious virgin To scour the creaming crests As the moon, for its ivory powders, scours the sea. A third person is watching. He has nothing to do with the bee-seller or with me. Now he is gone In eight great bounds, a great scapegoat. Here is his slipper, here is another, And here the square of white linen He wore instead of a hat. He was sweet, The sweat of his efforts a rain Tugging the world to fruit. The bees found him out, Molding onto his lips like lies, Complicating his features. They thought death was worth it, but I Have a self to recover, a queen. Is she dead, is she sleeping? Where has she been, With her lion-red body, her wings of glass? Now she is flying More terrible than she ever was, red Scar in the sky, red comet Over the engine that killed her - The mausoleum, the wax house. |
The Swarm
Somebody is shooting at something in our town - a dull pom, pom in the Sunday Street. Jealousy can open the blood, It can make black roses. Who are they shooting at? It is you the knives are out for At Waterloo, Waterloo, Napoleon, The hump of Elba on your short back, And the snow, Marshaling its brilliant cutlery Mass after mass, saying Shh! Shh! These are chess people you play with, Still figures of ivory. The mud squirms with throats, Stepping stones for French bootsoles. The gilt and pink domes of Russia melt and float off In the furnace of greed. Clouds, clouds. So the swarm balls and deserts Seventy feet up, in a black pine tree. It must be shot down. Pom! Pom! So dumb it thinks bullets are thunder. It thinks they are the voice of God Condoning the beak, the claw, the grin of the dog Yellow-haunched, a pack-dog, Grinning over its bone of ivory Like the pack, the pack, like everybody. The bees have got so far. Seventy feet high! Russia, Poland and Germany! The mild hills, the same old magenta Fields shrunk to a penny Spun into a river, the river crossed. The bees argue, in their black ball, A flying hedgehog, all prickles. The may with gray hands stands under the honeycomb Of their dream, the hives station Where trains, faithful to their steel arcs, Leave and arrive, and there is no end to the country. Pom! Pom! They fall Dismembered, to a tod of ivy. So much for the charioteers, the outriders, the Grand Army! A red tatter, Napoleon! The last badge of victory. The swarm is knocked into a cocked straw hat. Elba, Elba, bleb on the sea! The white busts of marshals, admirals, generals Worming themselves into niches. How instructive this is! The dumb, banded bodies Walking the plank draped with Mother France’s upholstery Into a new mausoleum, An ivory palace, a crotch pine. The man with gray hands smiles - The smile of a man of business, intensely practical. They are not hands at all But asbestos receptacles. Pom! Pom! ‘They would have killed me.’ Stings big as drawing pins! It seems bees have a notion of honour, A black intractable mind. Napoleon is pleased, he is pleased with everything. O Europe! O ton of honey! Wintering This is the easy time, there is nothing doing. I have whirled the midwife’s extractor, I have my honey, Six jars of it, Six cat’s eyes in the wine cellar, Wintering in a dark without window At the heart of the house Next to the last tenant’s rancid jam And the bottles of empty glitters - Sir So-and-so’s gin. This is the room I have never been in. This is the room I could never breathe in. The black bunched in there like a bat, No light But the torch and its faint Chinese yellow on appalling objects - Black asininity. Decay. Possession. It is they who own me. Neither cruel nor indifferent, Only ignorant. This is the time of hanging on for the bees the bees So slow I hardly know them, Filing like soldiers To the syrup tin To make up for the honey I’ve taken. Tate and Lyle keeps them going, The refined snow. It is Tate and Lyle they live on, instead of flowers. They take it. The cold sets in. Now they ball in a mass, Black Mind against all that white. The smile of the snow is white. It spreads itself out, a mile-long body of Meissen, Into which, on warm days, They can only carry their dead. The bees are all women, Maids and the long royal lad. They have got rid of the men, The blunt, clumsy stumblers, the boors. Winter is for women - The woman, still at her knitting, At the cradle of Spanish Walnut, Her body a bulb in the cold and too dumb to think. Will the hive survive, will the gladiolas Succeed in banking their fires To enter another year? What will they taste of, the Christmas roses? The bees are flying. They taste the spring. |