February marks the death of two of my
favourite poets, two ladies who have been an important source of inspiration
for me and my writing.
Sylvia Plath who felt she lived her life under a bell jar. And Forough
Farrokhzad who called herself
the captive" and her last poetry collection
was entitled "the wall
Both women bound
by their limitations, although there is nothing limited about the inspiration
their poetic and literary legacy gives to women writers. Coming from completely
opposite backgrounds; Farrokhzad, from a strict Muslim Iranian society which
portrayed her as a whore and as "a woman whose only talent is to say and
write what other pious women would not dare to", with her poetry banned
from publication for many years after the Islamic revolution (See my essay on Farrokhzad,
blog post dated Sept. 5th 2011) http://fatimaalmatar.blogspot.com/2011/09/wind-up-doll-forugh-farrokhzad-pushing.html
to Sylvia Plath's
American/British life style which provided her with much opportunity to become
one of the most important writers of the 20th century. Nevertheless,
both women suffered deeply from broken marriages, wrestled their whole life
with depression, frustrated by distant dysfunctional families, struggled with
the constraints of woman hood, society, and poetic ambition, swinging constantly
between
extraordinary heights of intelligence and the most desperate level of
despair.
With both their
fathers' playing an important role in their poetic genius; Plath losing hers at
a very young and critical age and living the rest of her life distraught with
idea of love and belonging. And Farroukhzad; being disowned by hers in her twenties
after her divorce and losing custody of her only child after proven an unfit
mother before the Iranian courts, due to here unorthodox lifestyle of publically
living with and engaging in relationships with various men outside wedlock.
Their feelings
towards their fathers becoming the suppressing and the breathing space of their
writing and as a result deeply affecting their love life and their attachment
to men.
Although
Plath committed suicide at only 30, and Farrokhzad died in a car crash
at 32, both incredibly gifted short lives ended in February (Plath on Feb. 11th
and Farroukhzad on Feb. 13th ).
I outlive both women today and find myself sharing many of their misfortunes;
the exhausting limitation of writing poetry, the impossibility of satisfaction,
the broken marriage, the anger that comes with the social stigma of divorce, the
pain of distant empathic parents, the disconnections with siblings, the
disappointment with love, the loneliness of a single mother, and the never
really knowing where to fit, thus I celebrate this month, here's to the two
most brave, most marvelous lady poets I know.
To Plath and
Farrokhzad
I understand
what it is like for you
the opening
and closing of the self
the coming
and receding of the tides
the lowering
and heightening of the voice
a soul
stirring within you
wanting out then
lazily sleeping in
wrestling with
the idea of this heaven and this hell
there is
almost no difference between wanting everything and wanting nothing at all, but
nobody believes you.
I understand
what it is like for you
sometimes love
sometimes a
sky of happiness can be bigger than the universe
sometimes the
mere thought of living drowns you with disgust
I know
I know the thin
glass door between you and that marvelous sunny day outside
And I know the will to never open it.
