HistoryConfessional Poetry emerged in the late 1950’s into the early 1960’s. This style of writing dealt with the feelings of death, relationships, depression and trauma. Confessional poetry was described as “of the personal” because the movement involved many issues that were relevant to the lives of these artist and could easily relate to its readers. Many poems associated with the movement dealt with topics such as mental illnesses, sexuality and suicide. The most motable writers of the Confessinal Poetry movement were Robert Lowell, Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton.
Analysis “Lady Lazarus” is a poem about the authors multiple suicide attempts. The author believes that she will die like a cat, and be rewarded with nine lives. The accidental attempt and recent attempt in which she was revived from both lead to this conclusion. However, she seems to take in these deaths and views them as a performance for others to view. "Dying is an art" that she performs "exceptionally well." The author clearly expresses her feelings towards depression and self worth, through her words and thoughts mentioned in the poem.
Literary DevicesAllusion- The title of the poem “Lady Lazarus” is an allusion referring back to biblical times when Jesus brought Lazarus up from the dead. The author refers to her self as being a "Lady Lazarus" when she returns from death after two suicide attempts each decade of her life.
Analogy- “My right foot A paperweight, My face a featureless, fine Jew linen. “ Plath uses an analogy between a featureless Jew and her face because she explains herself after her suicide attempt. She tries to explain to the readers that after her unsuccessful attempts at death, she is emotionless. |
Lady Lazarus by Sylvia PlathI 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 0 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. |