The poem is ab stunned the power of linguistic communication, though in this field a destructive power. To me this is a in truth direct poem. nomenclature argon exchangeable axes, powerful and sharp, loud, emitting echoes, every whizz messiness hear them, everyone can see their mag terminalic core. Words can be like axes, if they atomic number 18 utilise cruelly. They hurt. They drag her and wound her, convey her to the surface sap, like tears, or like the blood-jet of poetry, trying to re-establish her feature image, the mirror, her own adept of self. They press cutting into the tree which whitethorn symbolize a person, the sap which rise up universe tears. The tears are heavy like a didder and disturb the calm waters which try to deport to normality. The go of the tree may be compared to how run-in displace us over and over again. The mirror that is trying to re-establish itself seems to read the effect harsh words have in suspension us up into pieces. One m ight be hurt by words but the initial sting may turn for quite some time. Her bearing tries to return to normality. The tears promise down old and covered in weeds, forgotten, but hushed in that location forever. Later in life she encounters the words again, but now they are dry and riderless they have no effect, they are old and worn. These words are sterile and powerless to do what she tries to make them to do. This is while her life is fixed, her destiny controlling her, delay in the pool which may be the same one once disturbed by the rock, the weight of her tears and hurt. The stars see her destiny. It never can be disturbed or changed by emotions.

The white skull eaten by weedy greens represents her fathers death. In a larger sense the poem is about the impotence of words to resist ones fate. In Plaths poems each word is like a lapidate dropped in a pond, the meanings and symbolism of words travelling out from them like ripples. This sense of fatalism, the inevitability of her death is, in my opinion, a bequest she inherited from Ted Hughes. This poem encapsulates in it the whole working syndicate that she set for herself and her work, and, in spite of the triumph of her poetic accomplishment, the net failure of that task. If you want to get a full essay, kick downstairs it on our website:
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