Plath's Last Supper: A Villanelle Exploration and a Free-Verse Embodiment

Word Cloud of Poetic (re)Presentation of Plath made by B. Faulkner using Tagul

"Plath's Last Supper": A Villanelle Exploration

I grew fascinated with Sylvia Plath, always a favorite poet of mine, and read as much of her work as I could find, including The Bell Jar, followed by the reading of several biographies and books of literary criticism. I also love writing poetry that adheres to forms, as much as free verse is my natural voice and style, so it follows that I wrote my musings on Plath's life in this style, a rigid French form consisting of five tercets and a quatrain in which "the first and third lines of the opening tercet are repeated alternately in the last lines of the succeeding stanzas; then in the final stanza, the refrain serves as the poem’s two concluding lines. Using capitals for the refrains and lowercase letters for the rhymes, the form could be expressed as: A1 b A2 / a b A1 / a b A2 / a b A1 / a b A2 / a b A1 A2" (Poets.org). 

Plath’s Last Supper

Sylvia Plath took her life in her hands.

shoved her head in her hissing gas oven—

unable to face life’s demands.

Manic-depressive, bipolar, her brand

of mental illness, undiagnosed.  Grin?

Sylvia Plath took her life in her hands.

Motherhood, Ted’s affair—too much to stand,

she went to the gas like Jewish women,

but Sylvia Plath took her life in her hands.

Her daddy no Hitler, he just a man,

He who would do no more, she absolved that sin.

Sylvia Plath took her life in her hands,

but protected those babies from her, and

she made the last meal, gassed head, with shoving—

unable to face life’s mundane demands.

She shall grow no older, I understand,

she who yearned for mother, father’s loving—

Sylvia Plath took her life in her hands,

unable to face life’s mundane demands.

12-28-09

4:30 p.m.

Wednesday

Sawmills, NC

Musings

In this poem, I (re)present what I have learned in my author study of Sylvia Plath, weaving the autobiographical elements into this strict form, perhaps trying to impose control (the form) over chaos (Plath's life). This poem references her work, her life, and most specifically, her death, showing my morbid fascination with the fact that she, a successful female writer, having achieved all that I dream of, she committed suicide.

The inability to understand her actions fueled my Sylvia Plath addiction and junket as I read more and more in my quest for knowledge about Plath herself, the woman, what drove her. What follows is a free verse poem, an embodiment of Sylvia as I step into her voice.

Free Verse Embodiment

In "Sylvia Burns Yellow Dahlias," I leave form and convention behind and embody Sylvia Plath. In this poem, I speak as Sylvia, voicing the thoughts I think she may have had as she battled the demons she found herself besotted with: feelings of not fitting in, of feeling inadequate physically, wanting to write and be happy yet feeling tormented, being married to a less than faithful man who himself battles creative demons.

Sylvia Burns Yellow Dahlias

Today, I bought a raincoat

& in the bloom of my imagination—

like Clark Kent becomes Superman—

I am a tall reticent poetic genius

--transformed—

I can see the dark behind death, &

I want to be alone,

I want to write.

--God, the bliss—

But this colossal job of merely living

--so jam-packed—

makes me dangerously near to wanting nothing.


I conjure up words

(though I can not cure you)

but not in the morning.

Last year might have been difficult,

you inconsistent boy,

but I’ve never been afraid to experience pain.


The truth changes over time

(if I tell it slant),

& I waste my youth & days of radiance

--this is fatal—

& you—

you make monumental obstacles.


But I discovered the power

in this dark year of hell.

I selfishly think of razors—

I want to seek escape like this;

there’s no mistaking that.


But the razor won’t stay sharp &

that feeling I sought to capture

was borrowed.


God is on vacation:

the face of god is gone.

The dark world balances & tips—

I, too, want to be important.

You decide.

B. Faulkner
8:57 am
1-07-010
Valdese, NC
One of a series of poems to/about/in the spirit of my favorite poets.

Musings (Curricular Connections)

I use these two poems in my teaching of English to illustrate the process of using poetry to (re)present knowledge in the vein of poetic inquiry, resulting in my own poetic interrogation of Plath's life, art, and death.  I use these poems as models when I ask students to create research poetry for example or write poetry as part of multi-genre research projects.  Writing research(ed) poetry requires a deep synthesis of knowledge, resulting in deep engagement and real learning.

Check out my infographic attempt here.