I wonder now, on August 6, lying here on my white bed, listening to the rain: slant long and hard on the roof outside my windows coming down liquidly, drippingly plural and generous from the low gray skies, fluently saying what I choose to make it say. Slanting down the screen in milky, translucent streams, prolific, uncaringly beneficent, it heals or annoys, (as we humans choose to translate it.) And I love it because of the sound, and the gray pluvial walls of it dropping down, closing in.
The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, 6 August 1952
Three years ago, the hot, sticky August rain fell big and wet as I sat listlessly on my porch at home, crying over the way summer would not come again - never the same. […] August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.
The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, 8 August 1952
And I look at the windshield wipers cutting an arch out of the sprinkled raindrops on the glass. Click-click. Clip-clip. Tick-tick. snip-snip. And it goes on and on. I could smash the measured clicking sound that haunts me - draining away life, and dreams, and idle reveries. Hard, sharp, ticks. I hate them. Measuring thought, infinite space, by cogs and wheels. Can you understand? Someone, somewhere, can you understand me a little, love me a little? For all my despair, for all my ideals, for all that - I love life. But it is hard, and I have so much - so very much to learn -
May 13 - today I bought a raincoat - no, that was yesterday - yesterday I bought a raincoat with a frivolous pink lining that does good to my eyes because I have never ever had anything pink-colored, and it was much too expensive - I bought it with a month’s news office pay, and soon I will not have any money to do anything more with because I am buying clothes because I love them and they are exactly right, if I pay enough. And I feel dry and a bit sick whenever I say “I’ll take it” and the smiling woman goes away with my money because she doesn’t know I really don’t have money at all at all. For three villanelles I have a blue-and-white pin-striped cotton cord suit dress, a black silk date dress and a grey raincoat with a frivolous pink lining.
The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, 13 May 1953
Today is the first of August. It is hot, steamy and wet. It is raining. I am tempted to write a poem. But I remember what it said on one rejection slip: After a heavy rainfall, poems titled RAIN pour in from across the nation.
The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, August 1950
It’s only August and I was hoping to finally enjoy a few days off and catch some sun at the sea in Holland… yeah… It has been raining for the past 10 days straight and it seems the summer is saying its premature goodbyes. Even my turtle seems to know the fall is coming, because she doesn’t want to eat anymore. Looks as if she prepares herself for hibernation.
That’s why I thought we might have a "Sylvia-Plath-on-Rain"-week! ;) Plath’s journals, letters and poems are filled with wonderful descriptions of rainy days and rain related situations. This week, I’m going to present you a few rainy quotes from The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath.
Happy Birthday, Ted Hughes, born 17 August 1930, died 28 October 1998
The only calibration that counts is how much heart people invest, how much they ignore their fears of being hurt or caught out or humiliated. And the only thing people regret is that they didn’t live boldly enough, that they didn’t invest enough heart, didn’t love enough. Nothing else really counts at all.
What happens in the heart simply happens.
What’s writing really about? It’s about trying to take fuller possession of the reality of your life.
Applause is the beginning of abuse.
…imagine what you are writing about. See it and live it. Do not think it up laboriously, as if you were working out mental arithmetic. Just look at it, touch it, smell it, listen to it, turn yourself into it. When you do this, the words look after themselves, like magic.
Hughes was an English poet and children’s writer. He was British Poet Laureate from 1984 until his death. Hughes was married to American poet Sylvia Plath, from 1956 until her suicide in 1963. In 2008 The Times ranked Hughes fourth on their list of ‘The 50 greatest British writers since 1945’.
Sylvia Plath, possibly around the years of ‘60-63 (?) (possibly right before her death). For some reason I tend to prefer her during this time. There’s something about the way she appears around the 60s. I also prefer her dark hair and bangs over her blonde locs of the 50s. My favorite is the second photo, it seems like a poem is creeping up inside of her head, or maybe she’s just simply lost in thought.
Actually these pictures were taken in July 1959 during the road trip Plath and Hughes took together. The first pic was taken at at Rock Lake, Algonquin Provincial Park in Ontario, Canada and the second one at Jackson Lake, Grand Teton National Park in Wyoming, USA.
You can find boths pictures along with three others from this trip in The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath.
"Dying is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well." - Lady Lazarus
PLEASE DON'T FORGET TO ANSWER MYQUESTION ! Thx! :)
My name is Anna. I have been loving Sylvia Plath since I read "The Bell Jar" some time in 1998! ♥
I don't know about other countries, but there is hardly someone here in Germany who knows her or her work. The funny thing is... she seems to be everywhere and continues to inspire people all over the world... on TV, in the music industry, when it comes to literary tattoos etc etc...
That's why I dedicated this blog to her... to show and remember that she is ever-present, even in places you wouldn't expect her to be ;)
Crazy? Maybe, but in a world like this... WHY BE NORMAL? ;)
P.S.: Just started a spin-off blog http://sylviaplathink.tumblr.com/ where I'll be only posting Sylvia Plath tattoos (the same as here), just to have them in one place. If you are interested, take a look :)
If you want to submit to a themed week: email@example.com