Years ago, when I was not yet a grown woman, I read the poems of Sylvia Plath without giving much thought to her as an individual.

Currently, I am delving into a collection of books by various female poets. I wonder why I have never done this before. In school, I never had an inclination for analyzing poetry. I would often interpret poems in a different way from what the teacher expected, and thus, I was considered "wrong." However, if poets are akin to artists, then they should be accepting of personal interpretations of their work. As long as the reader is somehow moved, perhaps that is all that truly matters. Teachers have turned me off from too many things.

From what I can gather, this is likely a good introduction to Sylvia Plath. The foreword written by her daughter has assisted me in envisioning the complexity of who she was and how she lived. I was unaware that she was only thirty years old when she passed away. She had two young children. She was separated from her husband, had been ill herself, her children had also fallen ill, and she had recently relocated to a different place. When combined with depression, it is not astonishing how her life came to an end.

I am grateful for her vivid imagery and for the language of poetry in general. These poems are both moving and powerful. Some are strange, while others are sad. I do not sense an abundance of joy, but there are fleeting glimpses. I could quote entire poems, but for now, I will simply jot down a few lines to help me remember some of what I have read.

"A smile fell in the grass," from "The Night Dances."

"The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary. / Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls," and "The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild." from "The Moon and the Yew Tree."

"If I stand very still, they will think I am cow parsley," referring to bees in the poem "The Bee Meeting." That particular line made me burst out laughing.

I will probably explore more of Sylvia Plath's works in the future.

Daddy is the most stick-in-your-head haunting adult nursery rhyme I've ever heard.

It lingers in my mind, its strange and powerful words leaving an indelible mark.

If all words were once poems, there is still no word for what "Tulips" evokes.

The beauty and mystery of those flowers seem to transcend language, defying any attempt to capture their essence in a single word.

Other favorites include:

The Bee Meeting, a fascinating exploration of the insect world.

The Rival, which delves into the complex emotions of competition and envy.

Lady Lazarus, a powerful and haunting poem about resurrection and rebirth.

The Courage of Shutting Up, a thought-provoking piece on the importance of silence.

A Birthday Present, a sweet and touching poem about the joy of giving.

These poems all have a unique charm and power, captivating readers with their beautiful language and profound insights.

This was my very first Sylvia Plath book.

Initially, I was intrigued because a friend had posted one of the poems from this collection. Little did I have any inkling of what I was truly getting myself into.

This particular edition is introduced by Sylvia's daughter. She elaborates that after Sylvia's passing, her father had edited her poems and released them in the original book titled Ariel, which achieved great popularity.

However, this edition presents the unedited poems, precisely in the way Sylvia had intended them. At the back of the book, we are provided with both the handwritten and typewritten versions to peruse. As a typewriter enthusiast, this was truly amazing.

Her poetry is simultaneously wistful and grand, evoking a sense of floating in and out of a daydream. I now understand why she is regarded as one of the greats.

The introduction truly lies at the heart of this book. It reveals what Sylvia was experiencing, the agony she was living through and writing about. Despite their troubled marriage, Sylvia's husband held her work in high regard and respected it. I am deeply grateful for this edition and all the words shared by her daughter Frieda Hughes.

Frieda Hughes, in her foreword, states: "I think my mother was extraordinary in her work, and valiant in her efforts to combat the depression that had haunted her throughout her life. She utilized every emotional experience as if it were a scrap of fabric that could be stitched together to create a magnificent dress; she wasted nothing of what she felt. And when in control of those tumultuous emotions, she was able to focus and channel her incredible poetic energy with great effort. And here was Ariel, her extraordinary accomplishment, balanced as she was between her volatile emotional state and the brink of the precipice. The art was not to fall."

The moon, so bright and mysterious, seems to hold a silent charm.

The bees, busy and industrious, flit around gathering nectar.

The blades of grass, swaying gently in the breeze, add a touch of softness to the landscape.

The shells, with their unique shapes and colors, lie scattered along the shore.

All of these elements, the moon, the bees, the blades, and the shells, seem to drift and dream in a world of such dulcet hells.

It is a place where beauty and mystery coexist, where the ordinary becomes extraordinary.

Perhaps it is in these moments of stillness and observation that we can truly appreciate the wonder and magic of the natural world.

For in this dulcet hell, there is a beauty that is both captivating and enchanting.

I can hardly express in words my profound adoration for this book. Sylvia Plath introduced me to the enchanting world of poetry, both in reading and writing, and I will forever be indebted to her. I must admit that I'm rather tired of hearing how 'dark' and'melodramatic' this collection is. There seems to be a preoccupation with pathologizing Plath and her readers in any discussion of her work. It's an easy way to dismiss her, but I believe far fewer people recognize what an incredibly precise, metaphorically adept, and witty writer she was.

Of course, there is much melancholy here, but people often overlook the remarkable humor. Consider 'The Applicant' or 'A Secret,' where the speaker suggests her husband stuff his lover's lingerie with apple cloves because it "smells of salt cod." Or this wonderful passage from 'Stopped Dead': "We're here on a visit, / with a goddamn baby screaming off somewhere. / There's always a bloody baby in the air. / I'd call it a sunset, but / whoever heard a sunset yowl like that?" And what about the tenderness in poems like 'Nick and the Candlestick' where she addresses her child, saying, "You are the one solid the spaces lean on. / You are the baby in the barn"? Or 'Morning Song,' where the speaker becomes utterly fascinated with her infant's developing language: "now you try / your handful of notes; / the clear vowels rise like balloons." The Restored Edition of Ariel ends on the bee sequence rather than on 'Words' and 'Edge,' and the message becomes one of regeneration rather than of suicidal erasure.

Certainly, there is darkness. By suggesting we remember other aspects of the collection, I do not mean to undermine the power of the monstrous, the suicidal, the bleak, and the stunning violence in this book. In my view, Plath's poems notoriously exclude the other. There is no room for two figures in her work; someone must be annihilated. (Perhaps with the exception of some of the motherhood poems like 'Nick' and 'Morning Song.') Sometimes this occurs in the tearing apart of the self, as beautifully demonstrated in the infamous 'Lady Lazarus.' At other times, the speaker of the poems becomes the woman-monster of Dickinson's 'Dare You See a Soul at the White Heat?' as seen in 'Purdah,' 'Fever 103,' 'Lady Lazarus' again ("I eat men like air"), 'Ariel,' and 'A Birthday Present.' At times, the speaker is murdered by a terrible force, as in 'Tulips' or 'The Rabbit Catcher'; at others, as in 'Daddy' and 'Medusa,' the speaker's murderous impulse backfires and consumes her.

What Plath does, in a way that no one else quite manages (except perhaps Anne Sexton at times), is capture the surreality of modern existence, particularly in the domestic sphere and within the confines of the nuclear family, through violent mythmaking. If Anne Sexton takes the world around her, including fairytales, legends, and biblical texts, and brings them into the most private spaces, Plath takes the most minute experiences and transforms them into myth. I cannot force anyone to like or respect Plath, but her poetry haunts and inspires me constantly, and of course, I would like to share that as much as possible. Forget the cultural baggage surrounding her; read the book and form your own conclusion. Whether you love it or hate it, the experience alone will be worthwhile.

If all poetry endeavors to challenge expectations, then Sylvia Plath is surely the adversary of tired old clichés. The readers of her work are constantly left in a state of breathless wonder due to her explosive language, the astonishing imageries she employs, and the unwavering honesty with which she lays bare her personal experiences and emotions. It cannot be emphasized enough that one should not allow preconceived notions about her life to limit the interpretation of her poems.

This collection showcases Plath at her absolute finest. It permits her death instinct to fully unleash its creative power, spinning a story out of nothingness that is simultaneously brutal and transcendent. At times, her poetry is vengeful and unforgiving, delving into the realm of neglected and despised emotions that many have shied away from. However, it is precisely this courage that makes her such a captivating figure, as she has immortalized even the darker aspects of life.

Despite the fact that her perfectionist inclinations and unfortunate circumstances led her to self-destruction, her poetry resounds with a powerful urge for life, not death. It is a testament to her struggle to rediscover the beauty of life by any means necessary.

The Restored Edition incontrovertibly affirms this by presenting the poems in their original sequence. According to this order, the collection commences with “love” and concludes with “spring,” symbolizing the cyclical nature of life and the hope that always persists.

2017 reread:

I studied this book during my junior year in high school as part of a Dual Enrollment English class. That was back in 2014. Over this year, I have been rereading it in a somewhat fragmented manner, without actually documenting it here until now. So, let's begin. I have always had a deep love for studying Sylvia Plath and her works. Her writing is so powerful and evocative, it truly speaks to me on many levels. Each time I read her words, I discover something new and gain a greater understanding and appreciation for her unique perspective. I am constantly amazed by her ability to convey complex emotions and ideas with such clarity and beauty. Reading her work is like taking a journey into her mind and experiencing the world through her eyes. It is a truly enriching and rewarding experience.

Because I read this book alongside Birthday Letters for my degree, a significant portion of my final views on it are academically evaluative.

This academic approach is a necessary part of my studies, as it requires me to analyze the text from various perspectives, such as literary devices, historical context, and thematic content.

However, I also have a personal connection to books, and when I review them, I prefer to focus on the enjoyment I derived from reading them.

I believe that books should be both intellectually stimulating and emotionally engaging, and I strive to convey both aspects in my reviews.

While my academic evaluation of this book may be different from my personal enjoyment, I think it is important to consider both when forming an overall opinion.

By doing so, I can gain a more comprehensive understanding of the text and share my thoughts with others in a meaningful way.

It sticks like a knife from your shelves. “Ariel: The Restored Edition” is a rectification of a previously published edition. I neither possess that former one nor care to. Unless, of course, you are the sort of person willing to revisit her infamous feud with her husband, Ted Hughes, and speak of uncertainties. Perhaps the most fitting introduction to this restored edition is the foreword by their daughter, Frieda Hughes. It serves as a speed bump for readers diving into this with preconceptions of who Plath and Hughes are and the dynamics between them. Her mother is not to be overinterpreted or seen as one-dimensional, and her father is not to be vilified. “We already have a gravestone,” Frieda says, as they insist on decorating Fitzroy Road, the place she stuck her head in the oven, with a Blue plaque. Instead, it now decorates 3 Chalcot Square, where she spent most of her happier days. It, befittingly, celebrates Sylvia’s life and not her unfortunate demise.

However tormented Sylvia Plath appears in her work, her stillness also manifests within some of the poems. I agree that its deeply personal nature is difficult to avoid. Excluding personal relationships with her husband and other family members, most notably her father with poems like “Daddy” or “The Jailor” is impossible. But I also invite anyone picking up this book to actively view Sylvia as a human who also laughed and experienced many normal, happy days. She had the misfortune of allowing her sentiments to cut deep; her sadness cut as deep as her joy, and ultimately deeper. Rather than being labelled as some revengeful feminist or tormented artist, she should be adorned.

Her style is very cerebral and stark, but sometimes endearing. In her opening “Morning Song”, how she wants to be introduced, is very soft, speaking of a birth. “Love set you going like a fat gold watch. The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry Took its place among the elements.” Her imagery, her cryptic symbolism and her strong female voice are unique. How she borrows seemingly unrelated objects to help her paint a beautiful, unanticipated mosaic of words, that you can adorn only after the process of painting is over. I always pause in awe at “Cut”: “Little pilgrim, The Indian’s axed your scalp. Your turkey wattle Carpet rolls Straight from the heart.” Or this brilliant sentence from “The Courage of Shutting Up” “The courage of the shut mouth, in spite of artillery!” I can hear her recordings for BBC in my head. Her voice is vivid, strong, unlike her inherent weakness. Sometimes, however, the exposure is too much, the revengeful outpour almost too scathing, efficient, but not enjoyable to read through. The allusions to death, to blood, the melodramatic undertones of some of her monologues are akin to childlike sentiments bottled in agitated soda cans, ready to pop.

An accompanying associate to this book is some analysis of her work. Something to un-code some of her more ambiguous reads is needed. I do not have a recommendation for that other than “Google Search”. This won’t be my first read for sure. A re-read is in order sometime later; a conjuring of Sylvia in my study, her mystery, and her anguish.

For the past month, my free hours have been dedicated to poring over my copy of "Ariel: The Restored Edition", feverishly annotating every page. For weeks on end, I've dissected "Daddy" as nakedly as humanly possible. In fact, I've written an entire analysis of that poem, which I've posted on a blog I created specifically for poetry analyses. So, if you're interested, do check it out. (I had to rewrite the whole thing due to my impatience after I clumsily spilled a liter of coffee on my computer and had to wait a long time for it to be repaired.) Regardless, I thought that if I couldn't make my entire review of "Ariel: Restored" focus solely on that poem, I might as well write about it at length and share it elsewhere.

But I digress. Sylvia Plath's words have an uncanny ability to strike me right in the gut, slap me across the face, and tear my sorry heart to pieces. Time and time again, I find myself falling deeply in love with her mind, her obsessions, and the nagging sentiments she writes about that resonate so powerfully within me. Reading the restored edition has only deepened my love for her and her enchanting world of restlessness, beauty, and melancholy. Her fixation on the juxtaposition of love and torture is a theme in her work that I've found particularly captivating upon this reread.

Each line is like an escaped shadow, a prisoner of her soul. These prisoners spread across each page like ink, screaming, pleading, and haunting.

Once again, the unapologetic brutality and honesty in Plath's poetry is precisely what reopens old wounds, creates new ones, and introduces me to others I never knew existed. I will always be indebted to Plath and everything that she and her writing have done for me. In my darkest, ugliest, and most humiliating moments, having her books on my shelf makes me feel a little less alone. Thank you, Sylvia Plath. You were right: the blood jet is poetry and there is no stopping it.

Some of my favorite poems from this collection include:

- "Daddy"

- "Elm"

- "The Rabbit Catcher"

- "The Jailor"

- "Medusa"

- "Wintering"

- "Fever 103"

"I am inhabited by a cry.
Nightly it flaps out
Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.

I am terrified by this dark thing
That sleeps in me;
All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity."

I really liked these poems. It was especially after I read Heather Clark’s Sylvia Plath biography in December that my interest in her poems grew.

However, I think I spent an excessive amount of time fretting about whether I truly “understood” them. I had this constant feeling that I wasn't grasping their full essence.

But then, I decided to relax and approach them in the same way I would view art at a museum. I stopped overanalyzing and just let the words wash over me.

Surprisingly, this change in my mindset made a significant difference. The experience of reading Sylvia Plath, although not completely transcendent, was much improved. I was able to appreciate the beauty and depth of her words in a more profound way.

Now, I look forward to exploring more of her poetry and seeing where it takes me.

I always seem to forget just how long it truly takes to read and fully appreciate good poetry. There are so many captivating hooks, rich shades of red, and beautiful moon imagery.

Perhaps as a person who is not a woman, I may not have connected to these elements as deeply as a woman might. However, as someone who periodically struggles with mental illness, I can still feel a profound connection.

Among my favorite poems are "The Applicant," "Lady Lazarus," and "Tulips." Each of these poems has its own unique charm and power.

"The Applicant" presents a thought-provoking exploration of modern society and the search for identity.

"Lady Lazarus" delves into themes of suffering, resurrection, and the indomitable human spirit.

"Tulips" offers a vivid and emotional portrayal of the human experience.

These poems have the ability to touch our hearts, make us think, and inspire us in ways that few other forms of literature can.