Sylvia Plath reads "The Disquieting Muses." I've also included an introduction Plath gave of the poem. The image is of Plath with her mother and brother.
Thank you for the intro and the photo. I can never get enough of Sylvia. It is almost as if she is a child of mine away at school or overseas! I have to hear her voice and see her every few days, or I really start missing her. Silly, I know. I've never had this feeling before, except with my own daughter, of course, and now my grandson. I think her lovely voice is so much older and wiser than her beautiful, childlike face. She just soothes me! Thank you again.
Over many years I have empathised, smiled and been moved to tears over the poetry of Sylvia Plath and I greatly admire her poetic gift, tragically cut short too soon. However, as with the work of many other poets I cannot hear them read by their creator without feeling greatly disappointed. The words seem to sound cold, wooden and plodding, without emotion or dramatic passion and, puzzlingly, the flow from one unpunctuated line to the next is missing as the reader seems to halt before going on as if there is a full stop. I really feel that the best way to listen to poems is to have them read by actors. Their natural gifts and dramatic training can convey all the passion and drama of the words that the reader has experienced when first encountering the poem. I would be interested to know if any one else feel this way. ❤❤
if only she'd allowed a frown or a spirited outburst to betray her company, if only we all wailed and wilted at the shrill coldness of the world we learn to live in as children; then perhaps these disquieting muses might find themselves rosy in cheeks. Afterall, isn't the distinguishing character of the hero that he has no fear to betray?
Speak up Speak out Let us know your pain as you might live like a child again Bright smiles may beam across your face in muddy fields , in warm embrace Let us hear the tails of woe and bitter fears where all our Sorrows flow
I really love this audio, although her voice sounds different if compared to the other audios; she sounds less passionate here, to my ears. I also find the picture very interesting because she's smiling so much and seems genuinely happy, even though she resented her mother. there are excerpts in her journals in which she speaks very rudely of her and show her hate towards her... but i guess it would depend on the year this pic was taken.. anyhow - I love Sylvia. she's one of my biggest inspirations in writing, and I feel a special connection to her as a human being, 'cause I feel that deep down we're the same.
Or what disfigured and unsightly Cousin did you so unwisely keep Unasked to my christening, that she Sent these ladies in her stead With heads like darning-eggs to nod And nod and nod at foot and head And at the left side of my crib? Mother, who made to order stories Of Mixie Blackshort the heroic bear, Mother, whose witches always, always, Got baked into gingerbread, I wonder Whether you saw them, whether you said Words to rid me of those three ladies Nodding by night around my bed, Mouthless, eyeless, with stitched bald head. In the hurricane, when father's twelve Study windows bellied in Like bubbles about to break, you fed My brother and me cookies and Ovaltine And helped the two of us to choir: "Thor is angry: boom boom boom! Thor is angry: we don't care!" But those ladies broke the panes. When on tiptoe the schoolgirls danced, Blinking flashlights like fireflies And singing the glowworm song, I could Not lift a foot in the twinkle-dress But, heavy-footed, stood aside In the shadow cast by my dismal-headed Godmothers, and you cried and cried: And the shadow stretched, the lights went out. Mother, you sent me to piano lessons And praised my arabesques and trills Although each teacher found my touch Oddly wooden in spite of scales And the hours of practicing, my ear Tone-deaf and yes, unteachable. I learned, I learned, I learned elsewhere, From muses unhired by you, dear mother, I woke one day to see you, mother, Floating above me in bluest air On a green balloon bright with a million Flowers and bluebirds that never were Never, never, found anywhere. But the little planet bobbed away Like a soap-bubble as you called: Come here! And I faced my traveling companions. Day now, night now, at head, side, feet, They stand their vigil in gowns of stone, Faces blank as the day I was born, Their shadows long in the setting sun That never brightens or goes down. And this is the kingdom you bore me to, Mother, mother. But no frown of mine Will betray the company I keep.
Thank you for the intro and the photo. I can never get enough of Sylvia. It is almost as if she is a child of mine away at school or overseas! I have to hear her voice and see her every few days, or I really start missing her. Silly, I know. I've never had this feeling before, except with my own daughter, of course, and now my grandson. I think her lovely voice is so much older and wiser than her beautiful, childlike face. She just soothes me! Thank you again.
I feel kinda similar. Or not. I feel like she's my idoll (except the suicidal part...) and I'd I'd also hug her and support her :/
This is just excellent...And so cool to hear her reading it & give the intro.
Over many years I have empathised, smiled and been moved to tears over the poetry of Sylvia Plath and I greatly admire her poetic gift, tragically cut short too soon. However, as with the work of many other poets I cannot hear them read by their creator without feeling greatly disappointed. The words seem to sound cold, wooden and plodding, without emotion or dramatic passion and, puzzlingly, the flow from one unpunctuated line to the next is missing as the reader seems to halt before going on as if there is a full stop. I really feel that the best way to listen to poems is to have them read by actors. Their natural gifts and dramatic training can convey all the passion and drama of the words that the reader has experienced when first encountering the poem. I would be interested to know if any one else feel this way. ❤❤
if only she'd allowed a frown or a spirited outburst to betray her company, if only we all wailed and wilted at the shrill coldness of the world we learn to live in as children; then perhaps these disquieting muses might find themselves rosy in cheeks. Afterall, isn't the distinguishing character of the hero that he has no fear to betray?
Speak up Speak out Let us know your pain as you might live like a child again
Bright smiles may beam across your face in muddy fields , in warm embrace
Let us hear the tails of woe and bitter fears where all our Sorrows flow
I really love this audio, although her voice sounds different if compared to the other audios; she sounds less passionate here, to my ears. I also find the picture very interesting because she's smiling so much and seems genuinely happy, even though she resented her mother. there are excerpts in her journals in which she speaks very rudely of her and show her hate towards her... but i guess it would depend on the year this pic was taken.. anyhow - I love Sylvia. she's one of my biggest inspirations in writing, and I feel a special connection to her as a human being, 'cause I feel that deep down we're the same.
I love her voice.
Thank you 💙 for this
To hear her , makes me realize that it wasn't a bleak poem at all, what wit Ms. Plath writ with"
Or what disfigured and unsightly
Cousin did you so unwisely keep
Unasked to my christening, that she
Sent these ladies in her stead
With heads like darning-eggs to nod
And nod and nod at foot and head
And at the left side of my crib?
Mother, who made to order stories
Of Mixie Blackshort the heroic bear,
Mother, whose witches always, always,
Got baked into gingerbread, I wonder
Whether you saw them, whether you said
Words to rid me of those three ladies
Nodding by night around my bed,
Mouthless, eyeless, with stitched bald head.
In the hurricane, when father's twelve
Study windows bellied in
Like bubbles about to break, you fed
My brother and me cookies and Ovaltine
And helped the two of us to choir:
"Thor is angry: boom boom boom!
Thor is angry: we don't care!"
But those ladies broke the panes.
When on tiptoe the schoolgirls danced,
Blinking flashlights like fireflies
And singing the glowworm song, I could
Not lift a foot in the twinkle-dress
But, heavy-footed, stood aside
In the shadow cast by my dismal-headed
Godmothers, and you cried and cried:
And the shadow stretched, the lights went out.
Mother, you sent me to piano lessons
And praised my arabesques and trills
Although each teacher found my touch
Oddly wooden in spite of scales
And the hours of practicing, my ear
Tone-deaf and yes, unteachable.
I learned, I learned, I learned elsewhere,
From muses unhired by you, dear mother,
I woke one day to see you, mother,
Floating above me in bluest air
On a green balloon bright with a million
Flowers and bluebirds that never were
Never, never, found anywhere.
But the little planet bobbed away
Like a soap-bubble as you called: Come here!
And I faced my traveling companions.
Day now, night now, at head, side, feet,
They stand their vigil in gowns of stone,
Faces blank as the day I was born,
Their shadows long in the setting sun
That never brightens or goes down.
And this is the kingdom you bore me to,
Mother, mother. But no frown of mine
Will betray the company I keep.
Thank you ❤️
LOVE THIS Thanks so much for posting!
the aching pace
SISTERS OF MADNESS
💜💜💜
I hear the genius in her voice. But also the madness beneath the genius.
Awesome thanks!