2.5 stars.


The Colossus was the sole poetry collection by Sylvia Plath to be published during her lifetime. Regrettably, it was a rather inconsistent experience for me. As I perused the collection, I noted that the poems are generally presented in chronological order. This allowed me to observe the evolution of Plath's poetry and the growth of her skills as I read through the book.


At times, I found Plath's poetry to be exquisitely beautiful and captivating. However, more often than not, in this collection, I either felt bored or confused. Plath employs a wealth of metaphors in her poems, but for me, it wasn't always entirely clear what specific images she was attempting to convey. This hindered my ability to fully appreciate and 'read into' them. Instead, I sometimes found the poems to be overly wordy.


I noticed that another reviewer had remarked that they wouldn't have known when any of Plath's poems had concluded if it weren't for the large blank space at the end. Honestly, I had to concur. I didn't sense a strong sense of finality or rhythm in most of the poems. Additionally, I felt that many of the poems, especially those towards the beginning of the collection, focused a bit too much on nature and fairytale-like whimsy for my personal preferences.


Nevertheless, there are certain poems in this collection that have remained on my mind and truly showcase Plath's undeniable talent for writing. The titular poem, The Colossus, had an astonishing Lilliputian Gulliver's Travels - like atmosphere. And my absolute favorite was The Ghost's Leavetaking, which possessed a beautiful, dream - like quality and made me contemplate the distinction between the dreamworld and the waking world. I would wholeheartedly recommend these two poems to anyone who is pondering whether or not to pick up this collection.


Overall, it wasn't a truly outstanding read for me, but there were sufficient gems within it that I'm glad I decided to give it a chance.

While I did truly enjoy this particular poetry collection, I must admit that I have a stronger preference for Plath's prose over her poetry. The poems, at times, seemed a bit too lost in the realm of abstraction for my personal taste. However, I did find myself readily enjoying certain pieces such as "Colossus", "A Winter Ship", and "The Stones".

The lines "Love is the bone and sinew of my curse / The vase, reconstructed, houses / The elusive rose. // Ten fingers shape a bowl for shadows. / My mendings itch. There is nothing to do. / I shall be as good as new." hold a certain allure. They paint a vivid picture in the mind, with the concept of love being both a curse and a source of something precious, like an elusive rose. The image of ten fingers shaping a bowl for shadows adds an element of mystery and perhaps a sense of the intangible.

Overall, while Plath's poetry may not always be to my exact liking, there are still moments within it that manage to captivate and engage.

The Colossus, as I see it, was Plath's initial published poetry collection.

In the early stage of her career, she regarded writing poetry as a painstaking and laborious task. She often diligently looked up words in the thesaurus and inserted numerous synonyms of a single word into one composition.

This rather pedantic attitude is evident in these poems. Many of them devoutly adhere to difficult rhyme schemes, frequently using slant rhymes, and all are marked by a studied attention to detail, both visually and sonically.

These poems don't soar like the free-verse poems in Ariel (her second book). They lack the vibrancy and liveliness of her later work. They are bleak, characterized by vivid tactile details but somewhat lacking in color and movement.

Plath often uses the terza-rima rhyme scheme patented by Dante, suggesting that life for her is a slow, laborious, yet dignified plod through hell.

In this book, Plath shows she can write good poems, but she doesn't make the art of writing good poems seem easy.

However, I don't mean to imply that this isn't a useful book for aspiring poets. It is indeed a very important book to read if one wants to understand how Plath developed into the brilliant, oracular voice that produced Ariel.

Since Sylvia Plath started writing poetry seriously at a very young age, it may be unfair to dismissively refer to this book, published when she was 25, as her "early work."

There are many remarkable aspects of this book, not least the way Plath elevates mundane topics, such as men working the night shift or prize pigs, to the level of high poetry, endowing them with an impervious Dante-esque dignity.

To Plath, even the tiniest things in life deserve attention.

Plath writes poems that are truly elemental.

Her works are deeply attuned to the natural world, as if she has a special connection with the forces of nature.

She is transfixed by decay, finding beauty and meaning in the process of things falling apart.

Yet, at times, her poems are darkly humorous, adding an unexpected twist to the otherwise somber themes.

Many of her poems are inscrutable on first reading, leaving the reader puzzled and confused.

However, upon a second reading, they become magically alive, revealing their hidden depths and meanings.

Others, on the other hand, sing with clarity from the beginning, their messages straightforward and easy to understand.

These are the ones that I like best, for they speak to me directly and touch my heart.

Plath's poetry is a unique and powerful form of expression, one that continues to captivate readers and inspire new generations of poets.

Poetry is difficult.

It requires a unique combination of creativity, language skills, and an understanding of the nuances of words and their meanings.

Poets must carefully choose their words to convey the intended emotions and ideas, often using metaphors, similes, and other literary devices.

The structure and rhythm of a poem also play an important role in its overall impact.

Whether it is a sonnet, a haiku, or a free verse poem, the poet must consider how the lines will flow and how the words will sound when read aloud.

Moreover, poetry is a highly subjective art form, and what one person may find beautiful and moving, another may not understand or appreciate.

Despite its difficulties, however, poetry has the power to touch our hearts and minds, to make us see the world in a new way, and to inspire us to greater creativity and self-expression.

It is a testament to the human spirit and our ability to create beauty out of words.

Strong imagery and sibilance are characteristic of Plath.

As the collection progresses, it becomes evident that Plath is not merely playing with words and their seemingly meaningless meanings. Instead, she delves into the realms of sound and sense as well.

The intertwining theme of death and fertility, for which Plath is renowned, emerges in The Colossus. One can clearly observe the progression of her poetry writing.

However, it must be noted that the collection did lack a sense of order and cohesion. This deficiency rendered the collection a bit of a disjointed read.

Moreover, I must admit that it was difficult to understand Plath's meaning without biographical context outside of the text itself.

But once you familiarize yourself with the context from which she writes, it becomes apparent that her poetry is absolutely brilliant.

I discovered Sylvia Plath as an undergraduate freshman. It was my very good friend and drama student, Linda, who introduced me to The Bell Jar. Linda had a unique perspective on life, believing that life was art. She would often model nude for drawing studies on campus and even tried several times to persuade me to do the same. One evening, as she disrobed in front of me for the art class, I watched with a mix of awe and embarrassment as about 20 students in the class sketched her in charcoal.

The reason I mention this is that understanding Sylvia Plath became possible for me only when I began to understand Linda's ability to open herself up to others. Plath bared herself in a way that made me feel not only awkward and shy but also with a power that initially made me feel as if I was sitting too close to the stage. Here was a woman who wrote without any apology for who she was, offending those who felt obliged to judge and evaluate her.
There is little doubt that she was angry about being required to write like a woman and remain firmly within feminine issues. In fact, if this had been her only struggle, perhaps she might have lived, battled against the tide, and produced even more remarkable poetry. However, I suspect she could not persevere with the idea that the world expected her to be just a woman.
Today, I'm still surprised that this volume was ever published. Its power challenges social domination. Plath would have none of that, as seen in her poem:

Perhaps you consider yourself an oracle,
Mouthpiece of the dead, or of some god or other.
Thirty years now I have labored
To dredge the silt from your throat.
I am none the wiser.

I fell under Plath's spell several times during my freshman year. In many ways, reading her made me feel a strange discontinuity in my life, as if what I was studying in class had little to do with the life force struggling to live and burst forth from the earth. One was in my head, and the other permeated everything else inside me.
Linda would often sit or walk with me when I was under the spell, and I would talk excitedly about various points, all emulating what I thought was Plath's deep-seated passion. One morning, as we were walking across campus, me to chemistry and she to a literature class, she stopped me. We stood facing each other. She smiled at the surprised look on my face, kissed me on the cheek, and then turned and walked away. I stood there stunned, unable to comprehend. Finally, I went on to chemistry class, but I couldn't concentrate.
I thought a great deal about that moment, and it took me probably years to understand. But eventually, I realized that Plath and my despondency went hand in hand.

My hours are married to shadow.

Like Plath, I became married to shadow without being inspired to move forward. She was both dangerous and appealing to me, touching an element deep inside. I asked myself if this was Plath's inevitable path towards tragedy.
Still, one day I understood. I understood Linda, the meaning of art, and Linda's tender kiss. The problem was that I only understood Sylvia Plath intellectually. She kept reaching inside of me, and I would translate that into an intellectual endeavor.
To become free of the tragedy, I had to, as it were, disrobe in front of others without fear, without modesty, and without embarrassment. It was a slow process, but a necessary one. Sylvia Plath, through her own tragic life, had shown me the way to overcome the bonds of social acceptability and live my own art of life. Perhaps if one learns to disregard one's critics in the name of art, not looking back, the schizophrenia is optional.
This is a monumental book of poetry, with beautiful imagery and excellent form. Its truths do not come gently but like a knife without warning, without expectation, and without answers. She is a very fine craftsman of language, but perhaps language that displays hints of her inevitable demise. Plath may have been fighting some of her demons without success, but she teaches us that dealing with them isn't easy. She is one of the great modern pioneers of literature who had to fight hard to achieve excellence.

The Colossus

I shall never be able to assemble you completely. You are like a puzzle that resists being pieced, glued, and properly jointed. The sounds that come from your great lips are a cacophony of mule-brays, pig-grunts, and bawdy cackles. It's even worse than a barnyard. Maybe you think of yourself as an oracle, the mouthpiece of the dead or some god. For thirty years, I have been laboring hard to remove the silt from your throat, but I have gained no wisdom.

Using little ladders with glue pots and pails of lysol, I crawl like a mourning ant over the weedy expanse of your brow. I try to mend the huge skull plates and clear the bald, white mounds that are your eyes. A blue sky, like the one from the Oresteia, arches above us. Oh father, all by yourself, you are as pithy and historical as the Roman Forum. I open my lunch on a hill of black cypress. Your fluted bones and acanthine hair are scattered in their old chaos all the way to the horizon-line. It would take more than a lightning-stroke to create such a ruin.

At night, I squat in the cornucopia of your left ear, out of the wind, counting the red stars and those of plum-color. The sun rises under the pillar of your tongue. My hours are bound to the shadow. No longer do I listen for the scrape of a keel on the blank stones of the landing.

Have this remarkable book on your bedside table. It is the perfect companion for those lonely, stormy nights when you long to hide beneath your covers and lose yourself in something dark and meaningful. Sylvia is an exceptionally beautiful writer, and there is no denying that I am a devoted fan. What I truly appreciate is that we are granted a rare glimpse inside her nightmares, and by extension, our own. My copy of this collection is a testament to its frequent use, filled with annotations in the margins, creased pages, and the telltale signs of wear and tear. Many of the poems are simply disturbing, and you should not expect a 'feel good' experience from this book. In fact, odds are that you will get some shivers down your spine and probably even shudder a time or two. However, sometimes it is nice to explore our dark side, to run beneath the shadows of all those pent-up emotions, all those forgotten dreams and hurts. And there is no better person than Sylvia Plath to make us feel afraid and love it .

This is a truly stunning and haunting collection.

It came as a surprise to me that I found myself liking it even more than Ariel.

The works within this collection possess a certain allure that draws you in and holds your attention.

Each piece seems to tell a story, evoking a range of emotions from the reader.

The language used is both beautiful and powerful, painting vivid pictures in the mind.

Whether it's the description of a landscape or the exploration of a character's inner thoughts, the author has a remarkable ability to engage the reader on a deep level.

Overall, this collection is a must-read for anyone who appreciates fine literature and is looking for something that will leave a lasting impression.

It is no night to drown in.

A full moon is shining brightly, and the river is lapsing gently. The water is black beneath the bland mirror-sheen.
The blue water-mists are dropping continuously, like scrim after scrim of fishnets, even though the fishermen are sleeping soundly.

The massive castle turrets are doubling themselves in the glassy water, and all is stillness. However, these shapes float up toward me, disturbing the face of quiet. From the nadir, they rise, their limbs ponderous with richness, and their hair heavier than sculptured marble. They sing of a world more full and clear than can be.
Sisters, your song bears a burden too weighty for the whorled ear's listening here, in a well-steered country, under a balanced ruler. By harmony, you derange beyond the mundane order, and your voices lay siege. You lodge on the pitched reefs of nightmare, promising sure harborage. By day, you descant from the borders of hebetude, from the ledge also of high windows.

Worse even than your maddening song is your silence. At the source of your ice-hearted calling, there is the drunkenness of the great depths. O river, I see drifting deep in your flux of silver those great goddesses of peace. Stone, stone, ferry me down there.

Honestly, she mentioned a fig tree and that completely ruined my night. I don't know why, but those words just had such an impact on me. It was as if a cloud had suddenly passed over my mood. However, despite this momentary setback, I still love her. There's something about her that keeps drawing me in.

Reading Sylvia Plath is an experience like no other. It feels like watching Matty Healy eat raw meat on stage, but instead of a traditional stage, it's a clearing in the woods. There's a wildness and a rawness to it that is both captivating and disturbing. It makes me question my own perceptions and emotions.

Perhaps it's this combination of beauty and chaos that I find so appealing. It's like a storm that I can't help but be drawn into, even though I know it might leave me a little battered and bruised. But in the end, I think it's worth it. Because it's in those moments of intense emotion that I feel most alive.