deepundergroundpoetry.com
Sylvia
What do you know about Sylvia?
Do you know that she had depression?
Do you know the electroshock therapy that she endured, not only her silently named alter ego, Esther Greenwood?
Do you know about The Bell Jar?
Did you understand the words?
She had so much to look forward to.
She had dreams she wanted to live.
And she had people call poetry merely dust.
She wanted to write so that something out lived her, herself.
If you read her journals, you will feel so happy for her.
But when you remember the end of her story.
That there was no final words in a hospital bed with her husband and two kids at her side.
She had two kids, a boy and a girl.
One is dead also now, killed himself because of depression.
If only his father hadn't shut that away from their children.
Sure he spoke fondly of the mother they didn't know.
But he got rid of the journals that she wrote in before she died.
If only the words had been seen, maybe things would have ended differently for them and maybe Sylvia's words would have out lived her, herself.
But no one knows what she felt in the final moments, that early morning in February.
There are no poems about it.
There are no thoughts on it.
There is no plans on when she would do it.
Because those journals were hidden and destroyed.
And with it, the pride of Sylvia.
Her husband wasn't there.
She was in a depression.
Her husband was with another woman.
She was alone with their children.
They were separated.
And she was heartbroken.
Can you imagine her dressing that morning.
Going into the kitchen.
Maybe she even thought about making breakfast.
Instead she turned on the gas on the stove.
She closed the door to the kitchen and shove a towel underneath the bottom of it.
What a way to go?
Not quietly in the corner of a basement like she did when she was underneath the bell jar.
No she made a show of it in a sense.
This should be remembered throughout history as women going to their death and still having the last word, the last laugh.
Becoming the true winners in a sick and twisted game between men and women.
Remember Sylvia's choice of suicide like Jezebel painting her eyes and doing her hair, sitting at her window before she was pushed to her death. Martha Carrier giving her clothes the night before she was to be hanged, giving her children a meal to eat in The Heretic's Daughter. Rebecca Nurse asking for breakfast in The Crucible, these women were on their way to die and they stood up proudly as they went to their death, knowing that they had no escape.
Sylvia was not being murdered maybe, she was walking to her own death.
But while she could have been quiet and silent about it.
She made it a huge show.
To always be remembered as the woman that stuck her head in the oven.
Always to be remembered that way.
It is sad when you think about it.
She wanted to live.
She wanted to live many lives, not just one.
She wanted to be happy.
And be loved.
And married.
And when that all came undone, when she could find the strength to cling to words on a page, or the keys of her typewriter.
She turned on the gas, bent over in front of the open stove and sat there inhaling the gas.
Her last actions.
And they says actions speaking louder than words.
Is that why Sylvia is remembered as the woman that stuck her head in an oven?
Is that why so very few people know of her existence?
Have read her book?
Can make it through more than one stanza of her poems?
Is that why I cried for her, when I read of so much hope in the beginning of her journals?
Because liking reading The Diary of a Young Girl, you know the outcome of the main character that you will learn to love through their words.
And you will cry.
And if you really wanted to.
You'd smile and you'd remember.
You'd remember.
Sylvia.
Written for the "History" Competition.
Do you know that she had depression?
Do you know the electroshock therapy that she endured, not only her silently named alter ego, Esther Greenwood?
Do you know about The Bell Jar?
Did you understand the words?
She had so much to look forward to.
She had dreams she wanted to live.
And she had people call poetry merely dust.
She wanted to write so that something out lived her, herself.
If you read her journals, you will feel so happy for her.
But when you remember the end of her story.
That there was no final words in a hospital bed with her husband and two kids at her side.
She had two kids, a boy and a girl.
One is dead also now, killed himself because of depression.
If only his father hadn't shut that away from their children.
Sure he spoke fondly of the mother they didn't know.
But he got rid of the journals that she wrote in before she died.
If only the words had been seen, maybe things would have ended differently for them and maybe Sylvia's words would have out lived her, herself.
But no one knows what she felt in the final moments, that early morning in February.
There are no poems about it.
There are no thoughts on it.
There is no plans on when she would do it.
Because those journals were hidden and destroyed.
And with it, the pride of Sylvia.
Her husband wasn't there.
She was in a depression.
Her husband was with another woman.
She was alone with their children.
They were separated.
And she was heartbroken.
Can you imagine her dressing that morning.
Going into the kitchen.
Maybe she even thought about making breakfast.
Instead she turned on the gas on the stove.
She closed the door to the kitchen and shove a towel underneath the bottom of it.
What a way to go?
Not quietly in the corner of a basement like she did when she was underneath the bell jar.
No she made a show of it in a sense.
This should be remembered throughout history as women going to their death and still having the last word, the last laugh.
Becoming the true winners in a sick and twisted game between men and women.
Remember Sylvia's choice of suicide like Jezebel painting her eyes and doing her hair, sitting at her window before she was pushed to her death. Martha Carrier giving her clothes the night before she was to be hanged, giving her children a meal to eat in The Heretic's Daughter. Rebecca Nurse asking for breakfast in The Crucible, these women were on their way to die and they stood up proudly as they went to their death, knowing that they had no escape.
Sylvia was not being murdered maybe, she was walking to her own death.
But while she could have been quiet and silent about it.
She made it a huge show.
To always be remembered as the woman that stuck her head in the oven.
Always to be remembered that way.
It is sad when you think about it.
She wanted to live.
She wanted to live many lives, not just one.
She wanted to be happy.
And be loved.
And married.
And when that all came undone, when she could find the strength to cling to words on a page, or the keys of her typewriter.
She turned on the gas, bent over in front of the open stove and sat there inhaling the gas.
Her last actions.
And they says actions speaking louder than words.
Is that why Sylvia is remembered as the woman that stuck her head in an oven?
Is that why so very few people know of her existence?
Have read her book?
Can make it through more than one stanza of her poems?
Is that why I cried for her, when I read of so much hope in the beginning of her journals?
Because liking reading The Diary of a Young Girl, you know the outcome of the main character that you will learn to love through their words.
And you will cry.
And if you really wanted to.
You'd smile and you'd remember.
You'd remember.
Sylvia.
Written for the "History" Competition.
Published 8th Jun 2013
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8th Jun 2013 11:17pm
I love love love sylvia <3 She was a remarkable writer. She is my idol, read the journals poems and the bell jar. Remarkable woman. Thanks so much for this awesome read :) You really made my day.
