Ad Astera Per Aspera
Welcome one or all...
Welcome to Awakenings, a new endeavor of mine. I really enjoy English; in every form it takes whether it be poetry, novels, short stories or even plays. Having dabbled in each I can appreciate the work that goes into such masterpieces and can only aspire to such greatness. Here I hope to spread the intrinsic value that can be found in English and share with you the joy that it brings to me. It is here that I shall place some of my own works and my opinions of others (depending on whether time shall allow such!) If you have any comments on my work (good or bad but don't be mean!) please e-mail me at anything@awaken.artshost.com
Background: I wrote this two years ago as it was coming up to Christmas. Often people become too involved in their own lives and I wished to highlight the 'nothing people' at that time of year. Sometimes we forget that they too are people like you and I and that it is by fate's choosing alone that we are not in the same predicament.
An Icy Eve By Antoinette Mason
The snow freshly fallen upon the hard ground,
Walking alone a young man is found.
Through the streets he wanders with lights shining bright,
To keep out the darkness on Christmas Eve night.
Into the windows he peers of the shops gaily dressed,
In an attempt to decide which item he craves best.
Crammed full of people who want items paid,
For endless months, their earnings they have saved,
Planning ahead for this season of fun,
Only a couple of hours until Christmas will come.
With a shrug of the shoulders and an exasperated sigh,
He continues his stroll and walks on by.
At the street corner a lonely group stands,
Singing for every penny that lands,
Beautiful tales of winters past,
He throws in some change and hurries by fast.
Towards home he heads all wrapped up and warm,
Not even the bitter cold can create a scorn,
Through houses he treads in the dark of the night,
Each window lit merry and bright,
He smiles at the sight of a family around a tree,
Children are trying to guess what their present shall be.
Warm and snug inside happy as can be,
Everything so perfect even the fairy on top of the tree.
He bows his head and walks to his home feeling tired weary to the bone.
And he thinks of his sights on this cold Christmas Eve,
And ponders do they really believe in love joy hope and the birth of Christ
or do they not think of this as indeed a special night.
To spend with family all wrapped up, warm
not only of wrapping paper ripped and torn.
Smiling and grinning he understands
the joy Christmas brings in every know land.
To the poor and the rich the young and the old,
To each one the story of Christmas is told.
And he lies down to sleep in the doorway that's cold,
With his box and blanket so old,
Content and happy with what he had,
His little of littles made him glad,
His pale face the stars they did light
He then said a prayer and wished all a goodnight.
Sylvia Plath
Sylvia Plath is indeed one of my favourite authors and wrote some incredible poems during her time and hopefully someday I shall have the pleasure of reading them all. For the moment I would simply like to introduce you to some of her work which has inspired and awed me, in particurlar "Child."
Sylvia Plath was a woman of great ambition and drive, propelled by the desire to ameliorate herself. This was to be her making and coincidentally her breaking. It was this obligation for success that created the somewhat surreal perfection that is embodied within her poetry and also the demise of her spirit. Throughout her life she struggled with depression, much of this is exhibited in her semi-autobiographical novel "The Bell Jar." It was her depression that caused such a struggle for Sylvia, "to the person in the bell jar, black and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is a bad dream" and her dealing with such is a frequent theme in her poetry. To me Plath is a woman to be admired, she is a woman dealing with life's problems, worries, affairs of adulthood and most particularly parenthood. However it is one of her final poems "Child" that explains much of Sylvia's life, she was a high achiever that never was capable of fulfilling the high standards she set for herself.
Child By Sylvia Plath
Your clear eye is the one absolutely beautiful thing.
I want to fill it with color and ducks,
The zoo of the new
Whose names you meditate -
April snowdrop, Indian pipe,
Little
Stalk without wrinkle,
Pool in which images
Should be grand and classical
Not this troublous
Wringing of hands, this dark
Ceiling without a star.
In "Child" the image of a clear eye is used to illustrate the innocence and youth of the newborn. It is this eye that represents the child itself, untouched or tainted by the cruelties of the world. Plath wishes for her child all the attractive and delightful things that are a part of life "color and ducks", not the painful experiences that she has dealt with. What pains the poet is she cannot warrant this beauty that her child deserves, she cannot protect her from pain and anguish. Plath strives for perfection in life that cannot be obtained and deems herself a failure as a result of such. It is the most striking image of a "ceiling without a star" that elucidates the precise emotions of the poet. The star like the one that hung in the sky over Bethlehem, was a beacon for the three wise men who came bearing gifts. However the absence of this star show how Plath has no gifts to present the child, there is no beacon for her to follow, as all has become inordinately dark. This poem is indeed the most intimate and revealing as it as if through this poem we can see directly into her soul.
Each of Plath's poems are a unique trepidation of what in life she cannot cope with, be it herself, society or the anxious worry that parenthood entails. The word "selfish" is one often associated with Sylvia Plath due to her taking of her own life. However I see her in a different light, as a courageous young woman who tried desperately to cope with her depression and the perfectionist that resided within her. Through her life she struggled and for a while came out on top but what goes up must indeed come down. Eventually she could fight no longer for the life she was so dissatisfied with. On the morning of February 11, 1963 she ended her life. Who can explain why? but it is hinted at through her poetry. As Sylvia had written earlier in the last optimistic pages of The Bell Jar: "How did I know that someday - at college, in Europe, somewhere, anywhere - the bell jar, with it's stifling distortions, wouldn't descend again?"
