Hi everybody!This week I want to mention about Sylvia Plath's life and her books.
Sylvia Plath came into the word in 1932 at Massachusetts.Her father was a famous Biology professor at Boston University.Her mother was a student of her father in college.
When Sylvia eight years old she lost her father because of high diabetes.
Sylvia was a very talent student and under favour of that she study at nice schools. But despite all these talents and success she struggle with mental problems.Fund of all these problems her mothers indifference and her fathers behaviours are reported that.
When she study at Cambridge University she met her husband Ted Hughes.Ted Hughes was a poet just like her.They had two babies together. But in time because of Sylvia's mental problems and some other problems they grow away from each other.And Ted cheat Sylvia.
Sylvia live at her friends house for a while.But in time she decided to came home. Her friend didn't want to so that but she left.
And one day she prepared some milk and cookies her children and she went the kitchen.She stick with sticky tape children's door.And she left the gas on and put her head in the oven and unfortunately she died.Actually she tried that when she was twenty.Lile I said before she had mental problems.
I want to speak of her poets side.She generally mentioned her pains at her poetry.She started write poems when she was a little girl.And surprisingly she was good at that.Actually I can't speak very well about her poet side because I just read her a book which name is "Bell Jarr" and I didn't read her poetry books because of that I don't feel life enough for that.Well,I decided to give a poem for you to read from Sylvia Plath.Have nice day!
Morning Song
Love set you going like a fat gold watch.
The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry
Took its place among the elements.
Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue.
In a drafty museum, your nakedness
Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls.
I'm no more your mother
Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow
Effacement at the wind's hand.
All night your moth-breath
Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen:
A far sea moves in my ear.
One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral
In my Victorian nightgown.
Your mouth opens clean as a cat's. The window square
Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try
Your handful of notes;
The clear vowels rise like balloons.
-Eda
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