The thought of someone new, sure is exciting
But lately, I’ve been picking
Sunday dawns over Friday nights
Moonlit wet sand over roller-coaster rides
And I could make small talk
Learn a stranger’s hobbies
But I think I’d rather watch you show me
Your cricket helmet and brand new skinners
“Adrenaline rush is over rated” — take it from a sinner
My bruised knees, my swollen calves
My droopy eyes and my tired face
Need me to sit right next to
You, my resting place.
Stuck, I was, in a conflict
Whether to or not to
To fall, I chose, and so I did
Off a high, isolated cliff
The cold hard ground
I was scared to hit
But a glimpse of river
Made me do it
Now as I drown
With no breaths out
And no breaths in
I wonder how I forgot
I cannot swim.
I enter my room
I close the door, I fall to the floor
And as I fall
I shrink into myself
Like an empty tote bag
I rest my back
Against the foot of my bed
The need – it persists
The need for something to lean on
I sit with my knees wide apart
Kindly excuse me, I’m too upset
To have the courtesy to close my legs
My room is hot, uncomfortably hot
But the marble floor feels cold
Maybe that’s why I’m shivering
And not because of their cold reception
I feel it running up my chest
– A muffled cry – trying to surface
I cover my mouth with both of my hands
My throat, my jaws, they ache
My body spasms as I hold it down
Of what use is a closed door
And a noisy air conditioner
If it can’t cover the sound of my wail?
I cry because I have reasons to cry
Then, I cry because I cry alone
Then, I cry because I want to remain alone
My tears never had the luxury
to soak up an offered tissue paper
Or another man’s T shirt
They’ve always originated in my eyes
And died by the edge of my face
So this poem suffers a similar fate
It ends right here
I sit across the mirror
My blemishes are blurred,
with the rest of my face
My tan lines look smuged,
My receding hairline is just a hairline
The black dots on my nose — gone.
Scars from a childhood injury — gone.
A scraped off cheap nailpaint — gone.
I look like a retouched photograph
Then I put my specs on
and all of a sudden
I’m aware of every single crease
on my winter-struck skin
So, it’s funny you mention
that you don’t like me with my glasses on
I, also, don’t like me with my glasses on.
When did you know you found closure?
Was it when the need for an apology went away?
Does the need for an apology ever go away?
Did you forgive or did you forget?
Did you do both or did you do neither?
What did you do to the infinite grief?
Was it like a candle flame — growing smaller
And smaller, until it was no longer there?
Or was it like a crack on a marble floor
In a newly bought house — You made peace with the fact
That you’re going to have to live with it?
I walked past my old hostel gates today
They’re painting an advertisement over the seats you sat on on
Could this be the beginning of your end?
All flowers shrivel
But don’t their colours smile through
Wings of butterflies?
Bluebird, written by Charles Bukowski, is one of those poems which you can’t make anything of in the first read but as soon as you read the first verse the second time — everything makes sense. The use of uncomplicated language to express some very complicated emotions is just *chef’s kiss* . The perfect amount of cliche(ness?) and portrayal of some very relatable aspects of sadness make it a very readable poem.
The poet has shaped sadness into a “blue” bird (you see why I said it’s cliche?) that lives inside him. The stress on constant subduing of emotions persists all throughout the poem. He goes on to talk about his expertise in hiding his grief, his ways of coping with it — whiskeys and whores — and how he allows himself to vent only when he is isolated
The repetitive use of the statement “I’m too tough for him” is something that I especially enjoyed.
*I would strongly suggest you read the poem first and interpret it your way before reading my interpretations because it might develop a bias in you and we don’t want that, right?*
So, Sylvia Plath has this way of writing where her poems are so straightforward and so tricky; two words I didn’t think I’d ever use to describe the same thing.
Now, coming to the poem, this is all that I could make of it:
First stanza: I do not understand this at all; the only thing I can think of associating snails with is rain.
Second stanza: these lines feel the most consistent with the title of the poem because a “sealed tin” does give an image of a possible courier. Acetic acid should most probably be referring to vinegar, but, again, I don’t understand the context.
Third stanza: “A ring of gold with the sun in it” definitely has to do with marriage, an unhappy one infact. Now, why does the ring have a sun in it? Maybe it has something to do with couples promising each other “the world”. Couples do juvenile shit like that all the time, don’t they?
The “Lies. Lies and a grief” part is the first thing that got me a sense of the mood of the poem. Also, after reading this, the first two stanzas feel like the poet is maybe being romantically approached by another individual and she is rejecting it because of her past experiences and trauma.
This was the first half of the poem, to which the second half just seems disconnected.
Fourth stanza: It surely has a wintry setting. Winter is often related to emotional isolation, maybe that is why she has personified the “cauldron” because she’s so lonely, even the pot seems to be talking.
Fifth stanza: Now this part has me utterly confused. Why is she talking about the Alps? Why are they black? Why specifically nine of them? I have no clue. The number nine has also been used in her other poem “Lady Lazarus” where she talks about her several unsuccessful suicide attempts and claims it to be equivalent to how a cat has “nine” lives; I cannot link the two different usages of the number nine.
Sixth stanza: We were at mountains, now we’re at sea.
The sea shattering its grey one(mirror): The only thing I can picture to be the sea’s grey mirror are clouds hovering above it. “Shattering” that mirror could maybe mean that the sky is getting clear (I guess!!??!!?).
Love, love, my season: This seems to be a final justification to why she rejects love. Seasons change, love goes out of season.
That was all that I could make of this poem, and I am DYING to know what you have to say about it, how you pictured it, what was the mood you explored through this poem and basically just any kind of input from your end is highly highly highly appreciated.
Happy Reading ❤
Science — a passion
Passion — a transient emotion
“Passion – a transient emotion” — a recent realization
My country — pretends to love scientists
Engineering — a money bringing occupation
I — an upcoming engineer
Poetry — a necessity
Poetry writing — it can wait
Self loathing — a habit
Good grades — a master plan for redemption
Hobby — an unnecessary distraction
Certainty — a luxury
Closure — a hoax
Motivational Speakers — unicorns high on rainbows
Lana Del Rey — understands
Love — an artist’s favourite thing to capitalise on
Love — a childhood misconception
Love — a species’ system to escape extinction
Love — I do not get enough, I do not give enough
— a result of the pandemic?
— a result of menstrual hormones?
— Just who I inherently am as a person?
I cannot tell anymore.