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Poet: Sylvia Plath (Sylvia Plath Art)
Poem: Mirror
Volume: The Collected Poems
Year: Published/Written in 1961
Comment 67 of 67, added on February 16th, 2009 at 8:53 PM.
That is "troublous wringing of hands."
J. M. Y. from United States
Comment 66 of 67, added on February 16th, 2009 at 1:13 PM.
Ste. UK is entitled to his/her own opinion of Americans, but I assume that the purpose of this section is to offer commentary on the poem, itself. The use of the mirror and other mirror-like images (the metaphorical lake in stanza 2) are familiar Plath devices. She does something similar in "Child," where she compares the eye of the child to a pool in which she sees, of course, her own reflection. And while Ste. UK's reference to Narcissus is not completely off base, Plath's later poetry always has a confessional bent to it, so that each piece, especially in the Ariel collection is an intense look at herself. The poem is merely the vehicle to examine herself, and she always sees the flaws, always sees the depression, even in the poems that start off a bit lighter on the face of it. In stanza 2, that "agitation of hands" is likewise reminiscent of "Child," where she refers to a "troubled wringing of hands."
Jim from United States
Comment 65 of 67, added on January 24th, 2009 at 3:32 PM.
This wasn't, obviously, mentioned, and I would like to settle the interpretation of the poem. Sylvia Plath was bulimic. The concept of the mirror is her (in)ability to control her need to rid herself of her 'aging'.
with this in mind; reread the poem;
"I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
Whatever I see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful --
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.
Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish."
note the last four lines as they seem to emphasize her bulimia.
I, personally, love Plath's poetry, and the way she manages to obscure her pain into her lavish poetry is what made Plath, so unique; her issues and troubles made her the writer she was..
Ragnar from Iceland
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Comments
That is "troublous wringing of hands."
J. M. Y. from United States