On cold winter morning of February 11, Sylvia Plath was found dead in her London apartment, her children sleeping in the next room. The psychologists, promptly called it the “Sylvia Plath” effect and said all Female writers are more prone to suicide. Surprisingly, the examples they gave to prove this theory were of Virginia Woolf and Emily Dickinson, both novelist and poetess of a different era altogether.
My relationship with Sylvia Plath started when I heard a Ryan Adams song of the same name, of course that was just a song of love long lost and had nothing to do with her. But I had started on a quest. I asked around the Indian Literary Circles about Sylvia Plath. Shockingly, the author that had rocked America with her controversial confessional poetry was lost in translation in these parts of the world. I found her finally, in an ultra modern book establishment lost in the section of Poetry, where no one goes!. And then I read “Daddy”.
You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
My Polack friend
Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw. It stuck in a barb wire snare.
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.
There’s a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through.