When Sylvia Plath Has Ninety - Nine Lives To Live!

From inside the belly of the dump yard and garbage(read words and promises) I howl though I don't know at whom: the last lover who dumped me again or the system that never fails to produce narcissists, male chauvinists and sycophants. I decided to return to the resort: Sylvia Plath. 

When the world has been reduced to a few windows we call them social networking sites and the chat boxes have become cheat boxes to exploit women, we need Sylvia more. The marshes and the provoking quicksands are always lurking to devour our souls and leave us as living stones. Sylvia provides the conviction we need to bounce back:

And I am a smiling woman.   

I am only thirty.

And like the cat I have nine times to die. (Lady Lazarus)

After the last rejection, I decided to move on and who could be the best panacea than Sylvia Plath? She teaches me to have a life if not nine than one. She is defined by this andro-centric world by her death, actually it's otherwise. She should be remembered more for her life. Her razor-sharp words are cathartic to many. The loneliness that a strong woman is destined to suffer finds companions through her words in her world. The desire to challenge the "God-like Papa myth" finds vent in her poem Daddy, when she announces in absolute clarity,

Daddy, I have had to kill you.   

You died before I had time——

Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,   

Ghastly statue with one grey toe   

Big as a Frisco seal

The absence of a father or the presence of a dominant "Father God(?)" is in many ways responsible for the wreckage of our childhood and many women like me never get over that wreckage and become victims of more abuses in future. When I come back to Sylvia after every failure, abuse, and nerve-wracking exploitation Sylvia's poems become the only companion in my lonely ghost walking. Who can guarantee now that she has not been a victim of ghosting once in her life? No one can. 

Sylvia stands for every "misfit(?)"  woman who has known the gene of patriarchy and decided not to live in set rules but rather has decided to create her own rules to live on her own terms. Sylvia speaks for me, for us. So this macho world feels the urge to put her works in the box of "insanity." Women like Sylvia make these male demagogues feel insecure. So google leads every search regarding Sylvia to her death! The death she has chosen for herself is defined as a work of insanity! Her choice is defined as insane! This in-and-out patriarchal society which pokes its nose in every field: be it literature or culinary affairs finds security by portraying Sylvia as an aberration, not a normal one. 

So on her birthday let's celebrate her life and the lives she has given us to live and to fight. It's me, it's us speaking out, venting our volcano, letting our angry self-speak out when she writes, 

Out of the ash

I rise with my red hair   

And I eat men like air.

(Lady Lazarus)

Sylvia is resistant, a cloud that hails storms to break the rotten world to make something new. The gas flame has failed to consume the fire inside her head, rather the fire has exploded to burn all the chains, all the pains that keep us incarcerated into ashes. Sylvia is the name of birth, rebirth and everything new and free. Let's celebrate her choice, let's celebrate her words and let's celebrate her courage. Happy Birthday, Sylvia Plath! On your every birthday, I am born too. Let's celebrate Sylvia by reading some poems for her:

            1

When Google Is A Man

Google says

Sylvia died, Sylvia died on

11th February!

How foolish Google is!

It can't even differentiate between

Death and killing!

                     2

An Obituary to Sylvia Plath and Me

Sylvia, you're known by your death.

Poor men! They have still not learned

how to love a strong woman!

Some searched only for my thighs

and left me fully dressed.

Some tied me in knots

and left me wounded.

Some were in a rush

and didn't even ask my name.

While moaning, he

called me three different names!

Some asked for my price.

Some flayed my skin,

Some were just worried 

whether I am a virgin!

All were in a hurry

the food and the foodie

they had me in full

but left my soul untouched.

They know about the flame

but don't know

how we can remain blazing in love.

They deprived themselves of the heart

In pursuit of flesh and blood.

You're known for your death

by these foolish men

They don't know

you had ninety-nine hearts to live

than a body to die.

(Moumita Alam is a poet from West Bengal.  She is the author of The Musings of the Dark, a collection of poetry)