Sign up to save your podcasts
Or
Share Sylvia Plath's Ariel: A Cry for Escape
Share to email
Share to Facebook
Share to X
Share to email
Share to Facebook
Share to X
Or
Sylvia Plath's Ariel: A Cry for Escape
Ariel
By Sylvia Plath in her own voice
Stasis in darkness.
Then the substanceless blue
Pour of tor and distances.
God’s lioness,
How one we grow,
Pivot of heels and knees!—The furrow
Splits and passes, sister to
The brown arc
Of the neck I cannot catch,
Nigger-eye
Berries cast dark
Hooks—
Black sweet blood mouthfuls,
Shadows.
Something else
Hauls me through air—
Thighs, hair;
Flakes from my heels.
White
Godiva, I unpeel—
Dead hands, dead stringencies.
And now I
Foam to wheat, a glitter of seas.
The child’s cry
Melts in the wall.
And I
Am the arrow,
The dew that flies
Suicidal, at one with the drive
Into the red
Eye, the cauldron of morning.
Since my twenties, Sylvia Plath’s story has captivated me. The Bell Jar (1963), often regarded as semi-autobiographical, deeply resonated with me. The protagonist’s journey into a glamorous yet alienating world mirrored my own struggles with identity as a twenty-year-old. Back then, I read Ariel, and its haunting intensity felt like a fantastical, R-rated dream, much like the rest of her work.
Life has since tempered me, pulling me through challenges that have deepened my empathy, particularly for those less privileged. Today, I can grasp nuances I previously missed. To borrow from South Park: I don’t get it, but I get it. Adding to this, the past two years of raising a child have brought firsthand insight into the societal expectation for mothers to provide unconditional care. When I stumbled upon Ariel yesterday while reading to my son at bedtime on my Kindle, its words struck a new chord. The poem vividly captures the physical and metaphorical experience of waking to a child’s cry—a moment of unease and entrapment.
Stasis in darkness.
She is asleep.
Then the substanceless blue
Pour of tor and distances.
Plath’s imagery describes the gradual awakening. Consciousness emerges, shapeless at first, like a tenuous thread extending into the distance.
God’s lioness,
How one we grow,
Pivot of heels and knees! — The furrow
Her body begins to stir, and she regains control, as if piecing herself back together.
Splits and passes, sister to
The brown arc
Of the neck I cannot catch,
Fully awakening, she senses a disturbance—perhaps the cry of her child?
Nigger-eye
Berries cast dark
Hooks—
Black sweet blood mouthfuls,
Shadows.
Thirst seizes her, intensifying the disorientation. She hallucinates berries, their taste and texture vivid.
Something else
Hauls me through air—
Thighs, hair;
Flakes from my heels.
At last, she is fully awake, tending to her baby—soothing, cooing, and comforting with all the exhaustion of countless nights before.
White
Godiva, I unpeel—
Dead hands, dead stringencies.
And now I
Foam to wheat, a glitter of seas.
Resigned, she lays the crying baby down, drained yet serene.
The child’s cry
Melts in the wall.
Relief washes over her as she collects herself, savoring a brief moment of peace.
And I
Am the arrow,
The dew that flies
Suicidal, at one with the drive
She reflects on her life, caught in a suffocating present, with no escape from a past that burdens her or a future that feels equally oppressive.
Into the red
Eye, the cauldron of morning.
And so, she rises, ready to face the morning’s demands.
Reading Ariel anew, I felt a profound connection to the relentless cycles of care it portrays, though Sylvia Plath’s perspective is far from celebratory. Her words reflect a sense of confusion and oppression, capturing the emotional toll of motherhood as a stifling, inescapable burden rather than a heroic endeavor.
View all episodes
Ariel
By Sylvia Plath in her own voice
Stasis in darkness.
Then the substanceless blue
Pour of tor and distances.
God’s lioness,
How one we grow,
Pivot of heels and knees!—The furrow
Splits and passes, sister to
The brown arc
Of the neck I cannot catch,
Nigger-eye
Berries cast dark
Hooks—
Black sweet blood mouthfuls,
Shadows.
Something else
Hauls me through air—
Thighs, hair;
Flakes from my heels.
White
Godiva, I unpeel—
Dead hands, dead stringencies.
And now I
Foam to wheat, a glitter of seas.
The child’s cry
Melts in the wall.
And I
Am the arrow,
The dew that flies
Suicidal, at one with the drive
Into the red
Eye, the cauldron of morning.
Since my twenties, Sylvia Plath’s story has captivated me. The Bell Jar (1963), often regarded as semi-autobiographical, deeply resonated with me. The protagonist’s journey into a glamorous yet alienating world mirrored my own struggles with identity as a twenty-year-old. Back then, I read Ariel, and its haunting intensity felt like a fantastical, R-rated dream, much like the rest of her work.
Life has since tempered me, pulling me through challenges that have deepened my empathy, particularly for those less privileged. Today, I can grasp nuances I previously missed. To borrow from South Park: I don’t get it, but I get it. Adding to this, the past two years of raising a child have brought firsthand insight into the societal expectation for mothers to provide unconditional care. When I stumbled upon Ariel yesterday while reading to my son at bedtime on my Kindle, its words struck a new chord. The poem vividly captures the physical and metaphorical experience of waking to a child’s cry—a moment of unease and entrapment.
Stasis in darkness.
She is asleep.
Then the substanceless blue
Pour of tor and distances.
Plath’s imagery describes the gradual awakening. Consciousness emerges, shapeless at first, like a tenuous thread extending into the distance.
God’s lioness,
How one we grow,
Pivot of heels and knees! — The furrow
Her body begins to stir, and she regains control, as if piecing herself back together.
Splits and passes, sister to
The brown arc
Of the neck I cannot catch,
Fully awakening, she senses a disturbance—perhaps the cry of her child?
Nigger-eye
Berries cast dark
Hooks—
Black sweet blood mouthfuls,
Shadows.
Thirst seizes her, intensifying the disorientation. She hallucinates berries, their taste and texture vivid.
Something else
Hauls me through air—
Thighs, hair;
Flakes from my heels.
At last, she is fully awake, tending to her baby—soothing, cooing, and comforting with all the exhaustion of countless nights before.
White
Godiva, I unpeel—
Dead hands, dead stringencies.
And now I
Foam to wheat, a glitter of seas.
Resigned, she lays the crying baby down, drained yet serene.
The child’s cry
Melts in the wall.
Relief washes over her as she collects herself, savoring a brief moment of peace.
And I
Am the arrow,
The dew that flies
Suicidal, at one with the drive
She reflects on her life, caught in a suffocating present, with no escape from a past that burdens her or a future that feels equally oppressive.
Into the red
Eye, the cauldron of morning.
And so, she rises, ready to face the morning’s demands.
Reading Ariel anew, I felt a profound connection to the relentless cycles of care it portrays, though Sylvia Plath’s perspective is far from celebratory. Her words reflect a sense of confusion and oppression, capturing the emotional toll of motherhood as a stifling, inescapable burden rather than a heroic endeavor.