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| Homage
to Sylvia at four in the morning |
In a new edition of one of Sylvia Plath’s most
famous collections, her daughter Frieda sheds light on her mother’s
happiness and torment, writes Gerald Isaaman
IN the end, all is harvest, insisted Edith Sitwell. And certainly
the poet is right about her American contemporary, Sylvia Plath,
who has become a feminist icon and much else since she committed
suicide some 40 years ago, in Fitzroy Road, Primrose Hill.
She left as her stirring testament a collection of poems called
Ariel, named not in honour of Shakespeare’s creation but of
a horse she was fond of, and her husband, Ted Hughes, the late poet
laureate, ensured its publication.
An amazing acclaim followed for these poems, which have one thing
in common. “They were all written at about four in the morning
– that still, blue, almost eternal hour before cockrow, before
the baby’s cry, before the glassy music of the milkman, settling
his bottles,” explains Plath.
“If they have anything else in common, perhaps it is that they
were written for the ear, not the eye: they are poems written out
loud.” |
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