World Poetry Month: Day Twenty Three

World Poetry Month: Day Twenty Three

Today’s poetry is ‘Lady Lazarus’ a poem by Sylvia Plath. ‘Lady Lazarus’ depicts Sylvia Plath’s mental transformation before her third suicide attempt after her previous failures.

Plath’s soul is known for being tortured. The reader is drawn to this poem because of this. Agony has been experienced by most people at least once in their lives.

The poem reflects Plath’s lifelong struggle with depression and her quest to understand herself. 

Death and suicidal thoughts are the main themes of this poem. A ten-year cycle of suicide attempts has been described by the speaker.

At ten, her first attempt was not an attempt at all. It was just a simple accident. On the other hand, she was determined to achieve her goal of self-destruction on the second attempt. This attempt, however, did not bear fruit either.

As a result, she felt bitter feelings towards those around her. She reveals that the doctor who saved her is the greatest opponent between her and her goal.

Therefore, before the last attempt, she says bluntly, “No matter what happens.”. Then, like a phoenix, she will rise and devour men.

In this poem, Sylvia Plath refers to death by titling it ‘Lady Lazarus’. Plath’s poem is inspired by the well-known bible character Lazarus, who was brought back to life three days after he was placed in a tomb.

Like the biblical story of Lazarus being raised from the dead, this poem will be about victory over death.

As opposed to the revived Lazarus, Plath identifies with the decaying Lazarus in the tomb.

‘Lady Lazarus’ By Sylvia Plath ▶️

I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it——

A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot

A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin
O my enemy.
Do I terrify?——

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me

And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand and foot——
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies

These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.

The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut

As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I’ve a call.

It’s easy enough to do it in a cell.
It’s easy enough to do it and stay put.
It’s the theatrical

Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:

‘A miracle!’
That knocks me out.
There is a charge

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart——
It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash—
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there——

A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.

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