♥ Loving Sylvia Plath ♥
She was your friend. You pay the bill.

Paul Alexander, Rough Magic. A Biography of Sylvia Plath, Chapter 11 “A Posthumous Life”

***

This was written on the gas bill for 23 Fitzroy Road in London for the period that inculuded Feburary 11, 1963 - when Sylvia Plath committed suicide.

Assia Wevill sent it to Sylvia’s Devon friend Elizabeth Sigmund.

Wanna know more? Click!

Suicide Off Egg Rock

Behind him the hotdogs split and drizzled
On the public grills, and the ochreous salt flats,
Gas tanks, factory stacks — that landscape
Of imperfections his bowels were part of —
Rippled and pulsed in the glassy updraught.
Sun struck the water like a damnation.
No pit of shadow to crawl into,
And his blood beating the old tattoo
I am, I am, I am. Children
Were squealing where combers broke and the spindrift
Raveled wind-ripped from the crest of the wave.
A mongrel working his legs to a gallop
Hustled a gull flock to flap off the sandspit.

He smoldered, as if stone-deaf, blindfold,
His body beached with the sea’s garbage,
A machine to breathe and beat forever.
Flies filing in through a dead skate’s eyehole
Buzzed and assailed the vaulted brainchamber.
The words in his book wormed off the pages.
Everything glittered like blank paper.

Everything shrank in the sun’s corrosive
Ray but Egg Rock on the blue wastage.
He heard when he walked into the water

The forgetful surf creaming on those ledges.

- The Collected Poems, 1959

thevelvetscientist:

On February 11, 1963, Sylvia Plath killed herself in her home on 23 Fitzroy Road in London.

She was 30 years (3 months, 2 weeks and one day) old.

thevelvetscientist:

On February 11, 1963, Sylvia Plath killed herself in her home on 23 Fitzroy Road in London.

She was 30 years (3 months, 2 weeks and one day) old.

rosemantic: bit sick that you posted the death certificate

Excuse me? What is sick about this?

This is a blog entirely dedicated to Sylvia Plath and I’m posting here EVERYTHING regarding her (I also posted her birth certificate on her birhday)!

Besides, it’s an official document you can find everywhere on the Internet, it’s not like I’ve stolen it from some guarded archive or a private person!

In additon it’s her DEATH DAY today, so what better day is there out there to post a death certificate?

And last, I’m not the only person here on tumblr (or on other blogs) posting Sylvia Plath’s (or any other famous person’s) death certificate, but even if I would be the only one, I would still post it, because it’s a historic document regarding a public figure, so there is nothing sick about it!

***

DARN! I’m barely back and people are already starting to piss me off! Why? Oh why??! ;)

Anyone else having a problem with that one?

Sylvia’s Death
for Sylvia Plath

O Sylvia, Sylvia,
with a dead box of stones and spoons,

with two children, two meteors
wandering loose in a tiny playroom,

with your mouth into the sheet,
into the roofbeam, into the dumb prayer,

(Sylvia, Sylvia
where did you go
after you wrote me
from Devonshire
about rasing potatoes
and keeping bees?)

what did you stand by,
just how did you lie down into?

Thief —
how did you crawl into,

crawl down alone
into the death I wanted so badly and for so long,

the death we said we both outgrew,
the one we wore on our skinny breasts,

the one we talked of so often each time
we downed three extra dry martinis in Boston,

the death that talked of analysts and cures,
the death that talked like brides with plots,

the death we drank to,
the motives and the quiet deed?

(In Boston
the dying
ride in cabs,
yes death again,
that ride home
with our boy.)

O Sylvia, I remember the sleepy drummer
who beat on our eyes with an old story,

how we wanted to let him come
like a sadist or a New York fairy

to do his job,
a necessity, a window in a wall or a crib,

and since that time he waited
under our heart, our cupboard,

and I see now that we store him up
year after year, old suicides

and I know at the news of your death
a terrible taste for it, like salt,

(And me,
me too.
And now, Sylvia,
you again
with death again,
that ride home
with our boy.)

And I say only
with my arms stretched out into that stone place,

what is your death
but an old belonging,

a mole that fell out
of one of your poems?

(O friend,
while the moon’s bad,
and the king’s gone,
and the queen’s at her wit’s end
the bar fly ought to sing!)

O tiny mother,
you too!
O funny duchess!
O blonde thing!

by Anne Sexton - February 17, 1963

"Last Letter"-myths!!!!

Hahahahaha! Not even 24 hours have passed since the publication of Ted Hughes’s “Last Letter” poem in The NewStatesman and it already leaked the internet… and with it… the myths started… this is CRAZY… not even 24 hours and people are mixing and making things up!!!!

See, I’m sure this is how the bray/brag-thing started, too!

Here you go… found these “Last Letter”-myths - ALREADY:

1) Ted Hughes’ Lost Poem On Sylvia Plath’s Suicide Unveiled via Jezebel.com

WTF????? LOST? Why? How? Who said it was lost????? WHAT??? CRAZY!?!?!

2) “Last Letter” lost-until-now Ted Hughes poem about Sylvia Plath’s suicide via http://lyrabelacqua.tumblr.com/

See!!! That’s what I’m talking about! One person says it was LOST-UNTIL-NOW and the rumor has started!!!

3) Ted Hughes’s last poem via http://poetswarm.tumblr.com

Why??? Why? Why? Why? Again, did I miss something??? Who said it is his LAST POEM???!! Give me a source!! Tell me a name!!!

Besides, it’s only a part of the poem!

4) Never before poem by Sylvia Plath just published via http://jeblue.tumblr.com

Excuse me, but did you even read the a) poem and b) what you wrote???

Today New Statesman published “Last Letter,” a previously unseen Ted Hughes poem about the three days before Sylvia Plath’s suicide.

So, who wrote it now… Sylvia or Ted???? Is it by Ted Hughes or by Sylvia Plath? Is it a Sylvia Plath poem or a Ted Hughes poem?? Or maybe they wrote it together? The “Never Before Poem”!? ;)

5) A newly discovered Ted Hughes poem written immediately after Sylvia Plath’s death via http://www.guardian.co.uk !!!!!!!!!!!!

(Thank you, Peter)

Where does this information come from??? Who said he wrote it immediately after her death? Who/where is the source? Why do people need to add drama to an already spectacular story in itself? This is ridiculous!

***

Honestly people, do you really not care at all? Is it just COOL to have a “never before lost last poem” on your blog?? Please read and blog more carefully! Add sources, dates, authors and don’t spread wrong facts!

I still know, it’s all throwing pearls before swine, but I have to try!

Just imagine… it’s not even 24 hours… what will be in a week, a month or even a year???!!

I’m gonna update it on a regular basis! If you find something, please let me know!?

"Last Letter" by Ted Hughes

What happened that night? Your final night.
Double, treble exposure
Over everything. Late afternoon, Friday,
My last sight of you alive.
Burning your letter to me, in the ashtray,
With that strange smile. Had I bungled your plan?
Had it surprised me sooner than you purposed?
Had I rushed it back to you too promptly?
One hour later—-you would have been gone
Where I could not have traced you.
I would have turned from your locked red door
That nobody would open
Still holding your letter,
A thunderbolt that could not earth itself.
That would have been electric shock treatment
For me.
Repeated over and over, all weekend,
As often as I read it, or thought of it.
That would have remade my brains, and my life.
The treatment that you planned needed some time.
I cannot imagine
How I would have got through that weekend.
I cannot imagine. Had you plotted it all?

Your note reached me too soon—-that same day,
Friday afternoon, posted in the morning.
The prevalent devils expedited it.
That was one more straw of ill-luck
Drawn against you by the Post-Office
And added to your load. I moved fast,
Through the snow-blue, February, London twilight.
Wept with relief when you opened the door.
A huddle of riddles in solution. Precocious tears
That failed to interpret to me, failed to divulge
Their real import. But what did you say
Over the smoking shards of that letter
So carefully annihilated, so calmly,
That let me release you, and leave you
To blow its ashes off your plan—-off the ashtray
Against which you would lean for me to read
The Doctor’s phone-number.
                                                 My escape
Had become such a hunted thing
Sleepless, hopeless, all its dreams exhausted,
Only wanting to be recaptured, only
Wanting to drop, out of its vacuum.
Two days of dangling nothing. Two days gratis.
Two days in no calendar, but stolen
From no world,
Beyond actuality, feeling, or name.

My love-life grabbed it. My numbed love-life
With its two mad needles,
Embroidering their rose, piercing and tugging
At their tapestry, their bloody tattoo
Somewhere behind my navel,
Treading that morass of emblazon,
Two mad needles, criss-crossing their stitches,
Selecting among my nerves
For their colours, refashioning me
Inside my own skin, each refashioning the other
With their self-caricatures,

Their obsessed in and out. Two women
Each with her needle.

                                       That night
My dellarobbia Susan. I moved
With the circumspection
Of a flame in a fuse. My whole fury
Was an abandoned effort to blow up
The old globe where shadows bent over
My telltale track of ashes. I raced
From and from, face backwards, a film reversed,
Towards what? We went to Rugby St
Where you and I began.
Why did we go there? Of all places
Why did we go there? Perversity
In the artistry of our fate
Adjusted its refinements for you, for me
And for Susan. Solitaire
Played by the Minotaur of that maze
Even included Helen, in the ground-floor flat.
You had noted her—-a girl for a story.
You never met her. Few ever met her,
Except across the ears and raving mask
Of her Alsatian. You had not even glimpsed her.
You had only recoiled
When her demented animal crashed its weight
Against her door, as we slipped through the hallway;
And heard it choking on infinite German hatred.

That Sunday night she eased her door open
Its few permitted inches.
Susan greeted the black eyes, the unhappy
Overweight, lovely face, that peeped out
Across the little chain. The door closed.
We heard her consoling her jailor
Inside her cell, its kennel, where, days later,
She gassed her ferocious kupo, and herself.

Susan and I spent that night
In our wedding bed. I had not seen it
Since we lay there on our wedding day.
I did not take her back to my own bed.
It had occurred to me, your weekend over,
You might appear—-a surprise visitation.
Did you appear, to tap at my dark window?
So I stayed with Susan, hiding from you,
In our own wedding bed—-the same from which
Within three years she would be taken to die
In that same hospital where, within twelve hours,
I would find you dead.
                                                  Monday morning
I drove her to work, in the City,
Then parked my van North of Euston Road
And returned to where my telephone waited.

What happened that night, inside your hours,
Is as unknown as if it never happened.
What accumulation of your whole life,
Like effort unconscious, like birth
Pushing through the membrane of each slow second
Into the next, happened
Only as if it could not happen,
As if it was not happening. How often
Did the phone ring there in my empty room,
You hearing the ring in your receiver—-
At both ends the fading memory
Of a telephone ringing, in a brain
As if already dead. I count
How often you walked to the phone-booth
At the bottom of St George’s terrace.
You are there whenever I look, just turning
Out of Fitzroy Road, crossing over
Between the heaped up banks of dirty sugar.
In your long black coat,
With your plait coiled up at the back of your hair
You walk unable to move, or wake, and are
Already nobody walking
Walking by the railings under Primrose Hill
Towards the phone booth that can never be reached.
Before midnight. After midnight. Again.
Again. Again. And, near dawn, again.

At what position of the hands on my watch-face
Did your last attempt,
Already deeply past
My being able to hear it, shake the pillow
Of that empty bed? A last time
Lightly touch at my books, and my papers?
By the time I got there my phone was asleep.
The pillow innocent. My room slept,
Already filled with the snowlit morning light.
I lit my fire. I had got out my papers.
And I had started to write when the telephone
Jerked awake, in a jabbering alarm,
Remembering everything. It recovered in my hand.
Then a voice like a selected weapon
Or a measured injection,
Coolly delivered its four words
Deep into my ear: ‘Your wife is dead.’

decorus-tamen-letum:

lovingsylvia:

decorus-tamen-letum:

lovingsylvia:

decorus-tamen-letum:

lovingsylvia:

lite-sneezes:

I don’t think many people know that both Plath and Hughes’s second wife killed themselves. There’s something wrong with that man.

1. His second WIFE (Carol Orchard Hughes) didn’t kill herself, because she is still alive!

2. Assia Wevill was never married to Ted Hughes, she was his mistress/girlfriend/partner or whatever you wanna call it!

3. This is not really the topic here!!

I think they think Assia and Ted married because there was one article I read where they called Assia his step mother, which requires marriage. 

??? If they had called Assia his step mother, she would have been married to his father, not to him!?!? Hahahah! I think, you are totally mixing something up! ;)

BUT - TED HUGHES and ASSIA WEVILL were NEVER EVER MARRIED!!!!!!

I meant to put Nicholas Hughes in there, sorry, I’ve been sick and sleeping a lot so I thought I had typed it. 
But I found the article where they called her his step mother, it took me a while to find it, but after going through several articles I found it and it read.  

Nicholas Hughes, the son of the poet and novelist Sylvia Plath and the British Poet Laureate Ted Hughes, killed himself at his home in Alaska, nearly a half-century after his mother and stepmother took their own lives, according to a statement from his sister.”

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/03/24/books/24plath.html

IT’s fucking ridiculous how wrong that is, but maybe they wrote it like that to make it look more tragic or something

Oh, no problem :)

Yeah, I hate bad research! And I would have expected more from The New York Times!! But, on the other hand… is there a word, for someone’s father’s “girlfriend” from whe point of view of his child? ;) Never heard of something like this!

But still, they should express it in a different way, because it’s simply NOT CORRECT, but there has been so much bullshit (see or see) written after his suicide, it totally made me sick! Ugh!!! :(

What even? How can they blame SYLVIA for her sons suicide that was how many years later? The one says about his age, at the time of her suicide, making him sensitive to her depression, if that were the case, then his sister would have the same problems, because Sylvia was depressed for a while and his sister is only a year older than him

His depression is only a trait that was unwillingly passed down from mother to child by fault, and isn’t anything that could have been prevented. If anything, they should be blaming Ted for being unfaithful which is probably the kicker to the whole of it to begin with. He knew Sylvia was unstable, or at least I’d assume so, and I highly doubt she’d have kept that from him.

BOTH ARTICLES ARE A BUNCH OF CRAP!!! And the most ridiculous theories I’ve ever read… no clue which one is worse… but people, writing stuff like

Sylvia Plath and the child she killed" or "His parents were writers of very dangerous books" should really change their profession, because I cannot imagine that other articles written by them are more objective and better researched than these!

decorus-tamen-letum:

lovingsylvia:

decorus-tamen-letum:

lovingsylvia:

lite-sneezes:

I don’t think many people know that both Plath and Hughes’s second wife killed themselves. There’s something wrong with that man.

1. His second WIFE (Carol Orchard Hughes) didn’t kill herself, because she is still alive!

2. Assia Wevill was never married to Ted Hughes, she was his mistress/girlfriend/partner or whatever you wanna call it!

3. This is not really the topic here!!

I think they think Assia and Ted married because there was one article I read where they called Assia his step mother, which requires marriage. 

??? If they had called Assia his step mother, she would have been married to his father, not to him!?!? Hahahah! I think, you are totally mixing something up! ;)

BUT - TED HUGHES and ASSIA WEVILL were NEVER EVER MARRIED!!!!!!

I meant to put Nicholas Hughes in there, sorry, I’ve been sick and sleeping a lot so I thought I had typed it. 
But I found the article where they called her his step mother, it took me a while to find it, but after going through several articles I found it and it read.  

Nicholas Hughes, the son of the poet and novelist Sylvia Plath and the British Poet Laureate Ted Hughes, killed himself at his home in Alaska, nearly a half-century after his mother and stepmother took their own lives, according to a statement from his sister.”

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/03/24/books/24plath.html

IT’s fucking ridiculous how wrong that is, but maybe they wrote it like that to make it look more tragic or something

Oh, no problem :)

Yeah, I hate bad research! And I would have expected more from The New York Times!! But, on the other hand… is there a word, for someone’s father’s “girlfriend” from whe point of view of his child? ;) Never heard of something like this!

But still, they should express it in a different way, because it’s simply NOT CORRECT, but there has been so much bullshit (see or see) written after his suicide, it totally made me sick! Ugh!!! :(

lite-sneezes:

I don’t think many people know that both Plath and Hughes’s second wife killed themselves. There’s something wrong with that man.

1. His second WIFE (Carol Orchard Hughes) didn’t kill herself, because she is still alive!

2. Assia Wevill was never married to Ted Hughes, she was his mistress/girlfriend/partner or whatever you wanna call it!

3. This is not really the topic here!!

The poem, “Last Letter” will be published in full in the New Statesman tomorrow!!!

For more informations see also the following links!

NewStatesman:

Hughes’s best-known work is 1998’s Birthday Letters, a collection of poems that detail his relationship with Plath. Though the published poems make reference to Plath’s suicide, which occurred in February 1963, when she and Hughes were separated but still married, none of them addresses directly the circumstances of her death. This, then, would appear to be the “missing link” in the sequence.

Channel 4 News:

'The darkest poem he has ever written'
Poet Laureate Carol Ann Duffy told Channel 4 News Last Letter was “almost unbearable to read.”

"It feels a bit like looking into the sun as it’s dying," she said.

"It’s a poem of deep complicated feelings and in some ways it’s the heart of Birthday Letters. I think its absence from that original collection makes the collection more powerful. It stands, for me, as a poem on its own.

"It’s a poem that will speak in the way that a Shakespearean tragedy does to people who’ve had the misfortune to touch on those issues. It shows how a suicide can scar the lives of those who still have to live after that death.

"It seems to me to be the darkest poem that he wrote about the death of Sylvia Plath. There is a kind of deafening agony, blinding agony to this new poem. It seems to touch a deeper, darker place than any poem he’s ever written."

BBC News:

The poem begins: “What happened that night? Your final night.”

It then details, in chronological order, the last weekend of Plath’s life, in February 1963, when she and Hughes were still married but living apart.

It begins with Plath sending Hughes a letter, which is intended to arrive after the weekend, but is delivered early.
Ted Hughes Ted Hughes was Poet Laureate from 1984 until his death in 1998

The poem goes on to describe Hughes rushing to her house, where Plath reassures him that everything is fine. He leaves and she ultimately takes her own life.

Wanting to Die

Since you ask, most days I cannot remember.
I walk in my clothing, unmarked by that voyage.
Then the most 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 and year,
to so delicately undo an old would,
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 a book carelessly open,
something unsaid, the phone off the hook
and the look, whatever it was, an infection.

February 3, 1964

Isn’t it ironic that Sylvia Plath, one of the greatest celebrated feminist poets, died in a kitchen?

You are making me really MAD!

onlinepensieve:

says Jack, or ‘Jab’ as the laaaadz call it, who wants the credit.