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Nick And The Candlestick Analysis



Author: Poetry of Sylvia Plath Type: Poetry Views: 860

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The Collected Poems1962I am a miner. The light burns blue.

Waxy stalactites

Drip and thicken, tearsThe earthen wombExudes from its dead boredom.

Black bat airsWrap me, raggy shawls,

Cold homicides.

They weld to me like plums.Old cave of calcium

Icicles, old echoer.

Even the newts are white,Those holy Joes.

And the fish, the fish----

Christ! They are panes of ice,A vice of knives,

A piranha

Religion, drinkingIts first communion out of my live toes.

The candle

Gulps and recovers its small altitude,Its yellows hearten.

O love, how did you get here?

O embryoRemembering, even in sleep,

Your crossed position.

The blood blooms cleanIn you, ruby.

The pain

You wake to is not yours.Love, love,

I have hung our cave with roses.

With soft rugs----The last of Victoriana.

Let the stars

Plummet to their dark address,Let the mercuric

Atoms that cripple drip

Into the terrible well,You are the one

Solid the spaces lean on, envious.

You are the baby in the barn.






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||| Analysis | Critique | Overview Below |||

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This is a very loving, totally maternal poem addressed, as titled, to the author's baby son. In it she interrupts her own journey of introspection and self-absorbtion-the "miner" traveling down her old, familiar interiors-by the sight of her son, sleeping as in the womb, "embryo"-like, and he pulls her back out of herself; she is awed by his strength, by the solidity of him, by his realness and calmness. She almost can't believe she produced him from herself("how did you get here?"), but the tone is warm and it's obvious she is glad he did appear. The baby embodies life and hope. He is no parasite, but an autonomous being, and that's what it's all about for her, infant though he is. It's about maternal love, even in a "cold" intellectual mother.

| Posted on 2005-01-04 | by Approved Guest




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