Those are not dogs

This post concerns my visit to Heptonstall, the resting place of Sylvia Plath, which I made on the sixth of August this year, about six weeks ago. It has taken a little while for me to work out how to approach this one. For one thing, I felt I didn't really want to do another this-is-what-I-did-and-this-is-what-it-meant-to-me post. And for another, I wanted to think about why I'm doing this sort of thing and why I'm telling the world all about it.

Why do people take offerings to graves? Most of my family who have died have been cremated, but in the churchyard on the same hill I live on in the South West of England, my maternal great-grandparents are buried and have a grave. Other family members, such as my grandparents, to whom I was close, were cremated, and have either a plaque of a decorated page in a book (or both) at the local crematorium. I rarely - well, never - visit those, and yet I do visit the grave of my great-grandparents, even though they died soon after I was born and I have no memory of them.

View from the hill approaching Heptonstall

I guess it's partly because of the grave and the tangibility of the fact that the bodies lie beneath, and partly because it's pretty close to the house, so I walk in that direction fairly frequently anyway. On the admittedly rare occasions -once or twice in my lifetime, I guess - that I have put some flowers on the grave, I have tried to choose something that I think they would have liked. This despite having no idea at all what they would have liked save for a vague notion of what types of flowers may have been popular during their time. I guess it seemed important that the grave reflect the occupant - but in fact it actually reflects my no doubt flawed and highly subjective mental picture of who they were or might have been.

I'm sure you can see where I am going with this. Photos I have seen of Sylvia Plath's grave show it covered in trinkets, tat and stones that reflect the feelings and wants of those who bring the offerings and probably not much else. Of course they do. How could it be otherwise for Plath, my great-grandparents or for anyone? 

The graveyard in which Sylvia Plath is buried

Many photos that I have seen online of her grave show baskets full of dozens of pens, red tulips such as those described in her poem of the same name, poppies, and probably other items that have been mentioned in her work. To what extent do these items reflect Plath herself, and to what extent do they reflect the needs and interests of they who offer them?  This raises all those questions with which so many in Plathdom wrestle. In attempting to keep our offerings focused on Plath herself, we cannot help but reflect ourselves. By looking for clues in her work in order to find appropriate symbols to reflect her life in some kind of meaningful or poignant way, we can in end up saying more about ourselves than she whom we seek to honour.

This goes equally, I would suggest, for much that is written about Plath, too. The debate continues to rage (as much as any literary debate can ever be said rage) as to the extent to which Plath is knowable through her work. Early criticism noted the undoubted biographical value of her poetry and prose, and at times sought to use it to discover clues as to her emotional state at various times of her life. Latterly, this has come to be seen as unsophisticated and unscholarly. A typical academic article about her now seems to start with a variation on this theme: 

Since her death, Sylvia Plath's work has tended to be read mainly for its biographical value, as if reading her poetry could somehow help to explain her mental state and the reasons for her untimely suicide. In this article I shall argue that these readings, whilst not necessarily inaccurate or unhelpful in themselves, have lead critics to overlook the many other ways in which her work may be read. 

Maybe this sort of approach is a step forward. Maybe not. That people are looking deeply into her work is an excellent thing, for sure. That they are realising that efforts to know her through her work are ultimately futile is also good, I'd say, although that certainly doesn't mean that there is nothing to learn of her life from her work - far from it.

On the other hand, perhaps we need to be wary and mindful that our musings, writings and scholarly activities may say as much or more about ourselves as they do about the poet, and into the bargain, we may in danger of beginning to deny that which brought us to her work in the first place. Overall, there is a vast amount that can be read into or found in her work and it should continue to provide much to analyse and reflect upon - for those interested in her life and for those who take other approaches. Maybe part of the true value of Plath's work is not what it tells us about her, but what it says about us.

I found the grave somewhat more overgrown than the surrounding ones - no doubt because her space in front of the headstone had been sown with various seeds and plants over the years.

All evidence of tat had been removed and there were no stones balanced on the headstone. Her married name of Hughes looked, as it does in other recent photos, only slightly different from the 'Sylvia Plath' part of her name. I believe it has now been many years since misguided feminists have defaced it. I did not place anything on the grave. I felt it was not my place to do so. I guess I was also mindful of the attack, by her widower, Ted Hughes, in his poem 'The Dogs Are Eating Your Mother', in which he characterises I'm not sure who - Plath fans? - as beasts who pull at her body with their lips and have robbed her children of her. I spent a quiet hour there, sat on a bench for a while, stroked a ginger cat, thought about the fact that Sylvia Plath's body - the body of the person whose words seem to mean a great deal -  was very close to me indeed, and took some photos. Some very lovely Plath people had suggested to me some other sites to visit in the area, but somehow I didn't want to, so I walked back through the village to my car, and drove home.

Sylvia Plath Lived Here

I blogged previously about my trip to  London to hear the readings of Plath's Ariel at Royal Festival Hall in May. What I did not say about that day was that, en route to the hall, I visited two places in which Sylvia Plath had lived in London.

When I learned that the Ariel reading would be taking place, I resolved to be there and went online to buy a ticket at the first opportunity. I chose a seat in the rear stall, as these were the best seats available that I could afford. As popular as Plath undoubtedly is, there's no getting away from the fact that, in the scheme of things, literature is a bit of a niche interest these days. Even more so, poetry. And even more so any particular poet. Because of this, I am quite accustomed to attending Plath-related events alone. Indeed, it is often conducive to the enjoyment of the experience to be so, as it affords the chance to contemplate. Still, I fancied some company for this jaunt, so I asked my mum if she's like to come. She would. Great. The seats near to the one I had already reserved were also reserved by now, so we bought two tickets for seats on the balcony. Sadly, she was not well in the week leading up to the day of the performance, and felt that she'd be hard pressed not to cough loudly through the performance. In fact, it would hardly have mattered, since, as I reported in my review of the event, each set of three readings was received with loud coughing from hundreds of people in the audience! 

So I drove up alone, but happy to be taking the trip, and with a choice of three seats in which to sit. Before the performance, I wanted to visit two places.

3 Chalcot Square

3 Chalcot Square, where Plath lived with Ted Hughes in 1960-1961, and 23 Fitzroy Road, where she lived the last weeks of her life in 1962-63. I guess I'd chosen to see the houses in this order in order to give myself a little time to psych myself up for seeing  Fitzroy Road, the place in which Plath ended her life. My plan didn't work out though. I wasn't very familiar with the geography of the place, and had not realised that the two roads intersect each other. Thus my route to Chalcot Square sent me through Fitzroy Road. I had a strange feeling as I unexpectedly saw the plaque, to former occupant WB Yeats, on the front of the house as I drove by and realised the significance of the place I'd just past.

I drove round to Chalcot Square and parked the car near to number 3. Behind me was one of those lovely little semi-public gardens that they sometimes have in squares In London.

The house overlooked this. I wound down the window of the car. It was a hot day, and families were playing and sunbathing, whilst the sound of live jazz drifted through the air, from the garden of a nearby pub, I assumed. It was an idyllic scene.

The garden at Chalcot Square

I had not expected this! I've been to London quite a few times, but always to visit museums, galleries, shops or theatres. I usually return home thinking that I'd enjoyed the day, but couldn't bear the hustle and bustle for a longer period. Now I saw another side of the city. I could imagine two young writers being happy and inspired here. Come to think of it, each of the two places in which Plath has lived that I've visited - this part of London and Court Green - has been very different from my expectation. Court Green, which I'd envisaged as a rural idyll was in fact rather bleak - in February at least - whereas this area that I'd expected to be noisy and busy was just the opposite.

In biographies I've read, the flat at no. 3 is described as tiny: a lounge, a bedroom, a bathroom and a kitchen on the second floor (or the third if you use the American system).

23 Fitzroy Road

I spent about forty-five minutes there. For part of the time I sat in the car relaxing and reading, and I also walked around the square, looked at the house and took photos. I walked round to Fitzroy Road too. I took a couple of photos. The place was covered in scaffolding. Of course it is the place in which she died and in which she wrote her final poems. I didn't really connect with it. The road was busy and the atmosphere felt different from that of Chalcot Square. I soon walked back to the car.

I drove to the Southbank Centre, where the reading was taking place at Royal Festival Hall. The relaxed atmosphere outside the hall seemed to mirror that of Chalcot Square, and seemed perfect for the occasion.

The bees are all women - Sylvia Plath's Ariel at Royal Festival Hall

I know of no other poet, living or not, whose work read by others could fill the 2,500-seat Royal Festival Hall as Sylvia Plath’s did yesterday. That alone must be a testament to the enduring appeal of her work.

Three lecterns at the front of the stage stood equally spaced in front of a semicircle of chairs from which the performers would rise in groups to deliver Plath’s Ariel poems in the order in which they were left when she died. 

The stage set up for the performance

Plath groupie that I am, I found it an extraordinary thing simply to be in the same room as Plath and Ted Hughes’s daughter, Frieda, who introduced the evening. During the afternoon I had visited the flat in which fifty years ago, Sylvia Plath ended her life, whilst the woman speaking now – then an infant - and her brother were sealed in an adjoining room. Now here she was, a middle-aged woman a little older than me introducing a reading of her mother’s work.

Frieda Hughes remarked that she had wondered what to wear for the evening, joking as she gestured towards the other performers that she had plenty of others from whom to seek advice. She described each of the two versions of Ariel as important and was at pains to point out, I felt, that her own ‘restored’ version was not intended to replace the one edited by her father, but to stand alongside it. Frieda asked that the audience refrain from applauding individual poems – no matter how strongly they felt the need – and save their shows of appreciation for the end. Thus the readings began – though Frieda may have come to regret her plea, as each set of three readings was received with loud coughing –presumably people had been desperately stifling them during the readings.

I would characterise the evening as very successful. A triumph, even – though not without its ups and downs. According to the one-side-of-A4 programme, it was Gerda Stevenson who kicked off the readings. Her energetic reading of the poem contrasted with my own internal reading, and set the tone for the evening.

  

Outside the hall, an hour before the show

I was reminded that Plath said of these poems that they should be read aloud, and this seemed to be especially apt for this evening of live readings, some of which, with their varied emphasis and intonation, suggested hints of new meaning. Emily Bruni’s delivery of ‘Lady Lazarus’ highlighted this, I thought. For example, whereas Plath’s own reading emphasises the word, ‘knocks me out’, Bruni’s ‘knocks me out’ seemed to move the meaning away from the notion that Plath’s poetry is purely personal (stressing the word ‘me’) and render the message more inclusive. The significance of this seemed to be further underlined with the delivery of the line, ‘Nevertheless, I am the same, [pause] identical woman.’ The pause – for me at least - drawing attention to the commonality of experience suggested by the word preceding the pause.

Who could follow that, I wondered. Juliet Stevenson, of course, reading one of my favourite Ariel poems, ‘Tulips’. Delivered calmly and confidently but with feeling – I was a little surprised when she fluffed a line – perhaps two. Presently it was time for Ruth Fainlight to read ‘Elm’. Fainlight was the only performer other than Frieda to speak any words that were not Sylvia Plath’s, explaining briefly that ‘Sylvia’ had dedicated the poem to her. A little later, during the reading of the ‘Ariel’ poem, she seemed a little frail, leaving the stage with the aid of a stick and seemingly bidding goodbye to her fellow performers. Happily she returned about thirty minutes later.

As I said, there were lows as well as highs. I agree with the sentiments expressed by Angel DeMonica in her review on Sylvia Plath Info, about the delivery of ‘Poppies in October’, which I felt was delivered in a somewhat perfunctory manner. A little later however, as the actors sat down and the lights dimmed, we were about to experience the highlight of the event: The famous recording of Sylvia Plath reading ‘Daddy’. Her voice seemed bright and clear without any of the background hiss that I’m used to hearing as a backing-track to the reading. Her black and white picture filled the screen which had until now held the moving colour images of the performers, the static monochrome seeming to emphasise the distance of years between then and now, even as the quality of the recorded voice served to stress the opposite.

There were a couple of unexpected laughs from the audience – including one towards the end of the night for Messrs Tate and Lyall!

The view from Royal Festival Hall's balcony after the performance

I found myself yearning somewhat for some of the wonderful poems that are not included in this version of Ariel: ‘Poppies in July’, ‘Sheep in Fog’, ‘Edge’…

I surveyed the all-female cast as Deborah Findlay delivered the line, ‘The bees are all women,’ but any wishes I may have had that at least one male speaker had been included – if only to escape from the notion that speaker in these poems can be identified as the unmediated outpourings of Plath herself – quickly evaporated as she lifted her head to deliver the event’s final line, ‘The bees are flying. They taste the spring.’ A pause – then the applause that we had obediently held back was delivered with full force.

Overall, it was an amazing thing to spend the evening with 2,500 fellow Plathies. At their best, the readings were thought-provoking and suggested new shades of meaning that I had not previously considered. Plath, it seems, was right to say that the Ariel poems should be read aloud. 

Glimpsing The Ghostly Archives

I'm  so glad I live in the age of SatNav. There was a time when taking a trip to anywhere was a hellish experience for me. Amongst many navigating disasters, I remember searching for the venue of a job interview in Bristol in 1999, and getting so lost I had to phone my wife from my new mobile phone and have her direct me. 

Maps - I just don't understand how they work.

Likewise, some years ago I arranged to meet a friend for coffee in Bath and another group of friends for lunch, and was hopelessly late for both as I took wrong-turns on a route I'd travelled many times before. All the while, as I searched for these places, I'd internally berate myself for such idiocy. A sign of manliness in our society  is, it seems, to be able to talk about the route you took to arrive at a particular place. "Did you take the A472, or the back roads?", people will ask. I don't know!! 

Thanks to SatNav, I had no such trouble when I needed to get from the school at which I teach in Weston-super-Mare to Plymouth University in time for the preview recitation of These Ghostly Archives 5. It's just a case of inputting the correct postcode and doing as you're told. I can do that.

As soon as my interest in Plath began in earnest, I took to Googling her name regularly, in order to discover any events that may be of interest. From one of these I found that Peter K. Steinberg and Gail Crowther were to present a preview of their paper in Plymouth on March 20th. I immediately decided that I would be there. On the day, I left school immediately and the SatNav told me I'd be in good time to arrive about thirty minutes early. As I drove however, my elderly Vauxhall protested a little and so I drove at 55-60 most of the way. The ETA on the SatNav crept up steadily and I in fact arrived at around ten to six. With the talk due to begin at six, I realised that no on-campus parking was available. By the time I'd parked, walked for a while in the wrong direction and looked for the building, I was about five or ten minutes late. 

Climbing the stairs to the room on the seventh floor of the building, I entered the room as the introductory speaker was well under way, and sat down at the back of the room,

The Rolle Building - Plymouth University

attempting to control my breathing from the exertion of climbing the stairs (I hate lifts - perhaps because my brothers and I were trapped in one in Paris when I was thirteen), and surreptitiously taking a puff on my inhaler.

I had read the revelations that Peter and Gail had already made from their discoveries from various Plath archives, published in the online interdisciplinary journal Plath Profiles, and was therefore ready to be astonished by their further revelations on this day. The paper has not yet been published, so it would be wrong of me to reveal any of its contents here, but I'm sure it's okay to say that the revelations that were presented surpassed my expectations and left me amazed that such things were still discoverable from archives and locations which have been mined by many for many years.

An unexpected pleasure was that Elizabeth Sigmund, a friend of Sylvia Plath from her time in North Tawton and co-dedicatee of The Bell Jar, was in attendance, and spoke at length about her personal relationship with Plath and Ted Hughes. Elizabeth also brought Sylvia Plath's heavily annotated copy of a book of - I think - Dylan Thomas's poems. 

Elizabeth's dedication in The Bell Jar

We broke for drinks and returned for questions. I am very aware that Sylvia Plath's suicide is for some a part of the reason for their interest in her. However , I was very surprised at the extent to which some of the questions dwelt on this. Indeed, far from asking questions of the panel about the paper that had presented, some simply made statements of their own opinions about the supposed selfishness of suicide, which I felt was discourteous to the panel and irrelevant to the reasons for which I had supposed we were all there. Surely a gathering such as this, fifty years after her Plath's death, was taking place because of the poetry and prose she had written and - in my supposition at least - what it had meant to each us; and was supposed to be more than a simple forum for people to attempt to impose their views about her final act. Despite feeling a little reticent - shy if I'm to be honest - I wanted to ask a question and felt I should. I asked Gail about the correspondence regarding the biography Bitter Fame she had seen in the archives at Smith College, which she had mentioned in These Ghostly Archives 4 and I received a fascinating and illuminating answer.

It was amazing to hear about the things Peter and Gail had done and seen, and I was flattered that Peter complimented my question via Twitter the next day. It was also encouraging that Gail, like me, has a fear of flying, and yet has visited Smith College to work on the Plath archives. I have since been looking into the prices of cabins on the Queen Mary - the only liner which now makes trips to the States.

I would have loved to have stayed for a while to talk to people after the event, but I had a long trip in a potentially unreliable car to look forward to, so I left as soon as the questions were done. However, I was delighted to attend and spend a few hours in the company of people who understand what it is to be  so fascinated with a single poet, and I'm looking forward to reading the full paper when it's published in the summer.

North Tawton

Although this post is about my visit to Plath's former home in North Tawton, to begin this first proper post I wanted to briefly sketch out the roots of my interest in Sylvia Plath and her poetry.

Newton St. Loe Castle - pictured in 2003 (© N.Smart)

 No doubt I'll expand on this somewhat in future posts, but my first real encounter with her work happened during my studies for my first degree, at Bath Spa University. The poem was 'Tulips' and I recall feeling quite moved by Plath's words, as I sat in the beautiful castle on the Newton Park campus, overlooking the equally beautiful lake. My interest in her poetry grew and, as I started my master's in 2006, this interest led me to an even greater one in the work of her contemporary and friend, Anne Sexton. 

My recent interest in Plath, which seems to be far greater and, frankly, all-consuming, began around November 2012. I'm really not sure what precipitated it. I noticed online that a Plath event was to take place in Oxford on 1st June 2013, and felt a sudden urge to attend. Tracy Brain, a Plath expert from Bath Spa was to speak at the event, as was Jo Gill, an expert on Sexton who had lectured at Bath Spa and was now at the University of Exeter. I already had a few of her books, but now that I had a reason to, I bought and read Plath's work much more avidly.

Court Green (©N.Smart)

Court Green, in North Tawton, Devon, is the name of the large thatched cottage in which Plath lived with Ted Hughes, and in which she wrote most of the poems that were published as Ariel.

It is about ninety minutes' drive from my house in Weston-super-Mare, and the original plan was for my wife and I to go there on New Year's Day this year. Unfortunately our fifteen-year-old son and his friend had a merry New Year's Eve drinking snakebite in his den room and being sick, so we postponed our trip.

Yew Tree in St. Peter's (©N.Smart)

The next opportune time was February, during the schools' half-term break, so we chose the 11th - the fiftieth anniversary of her death.

As we arrived in North Tawton, I began to recognise the road which approaches Court Green, from the photos I'd seen on Peter K. Steinberg's brilliant website, A celebration, this is, copies of which I'd downloaded onto my tablet to help me navigate and recognise significant places. "I feel quite nervous," I said to Kath. Pulling over to park at the place to which the SatNav had lead us, I looked to the right and took in the scene.

"That's the Yew Tree," I said - and explained that the tree was the subject of her poem, 'The Moon and the Yew Tree'.

We walked into the churchyard that adjoins the house, and looked around. I knew from the poem, and another, 'Letter in November', that the house was separated from the churchyard by a row of headstones.

St. Peter's (©N.Smart)

I hadn't realised that the headstones extended around the entire perimeter of the yard. It was an eerie feeling to be surrounded in this way.

I walked to the border between the house and the graveyard as Kath stayed on the path. Alone there, it was a melancholy feeling. It seems melodramatic, but I understand why Plath related that "spiritous mists inhabit this place".

I took lots of photos and rejoined  Kath, asking her to take some photos of me by the wall of gravestones.

Walking towards the end of the private lane which leads up to the house at Court Green, I paused for a second and looked up to the house.

Instantly, I heard a friendly-sounding voice:

"Hi"
"Hi"
"I mind!"
"Pardon?"
"I mind!!"
"...Sorry"
(Shouting angrily) "It's been my home for over forty years!"

It was Carol Hughes, Ted's widow. Kath and I walked the few steps back to the car, dejectedly. Any romantic notions of my Plath pilgrimage were vanquished. I felt I had intruded into a world in which I didn't belong, and began to question my right to research the life and work of someone who had lived so recently, and many of whose family, friends and acquaintances were still living. I could quite understand how Mrs Hughes would not welcome visitors who came to view her house because her late husband's first wife had lived there. I imagine she may have been on the lookout for Plath-related visitors on the anniversary of her death.

By the 'row of old corpses' (©N.Smart)

When we arrived home, Kath and I reflected on the experience. I looked at my shelf of books by Plath and Hughes, re-read some of Plath's poems, and reflected on the fact that the royalties from these books had contributed to the house at Court Green.

That evening, to mark the anniversary, Maeve O'Brien was hosting an event at the University of Ulster, and streaming it online. I watched as academics, including Philip McGowan, gave papers about Plath and her work. Some read her poems, whilst others read their own work inspired by her. By listening, and by re-reading Plath's work I was able to start to re-connect and to feel that there is indeed value in studying Sylvia Plath's work. My interest in Plath has increased steadily since then.

Why?

I have a couple of other blogs on other subjects, neither of which I update very often. This one will be different, I hope. Its purpose is to chronicle my ongoing discovery of the poet Sylvia Plath. 

In 2007 I completed my Master's dissertation on the subject of Anne Sexton. As she and Plath were friends (or acquaintances), I came to know Plath's work a little at that time. Around November last year my interest shifted towards Plath. Since then I have attended a number of events which are related to my fascination with her: A visit to Court Green in North Tawton, Devon, where she lived with Ted Hughes; an event hosted by Plymouth University at which Peter K. Steinberg and Gail Crowther presented an extremely revelatory paper: These Ghostly Archives 5; and the BAAS conference at The University of Exeter, at which Nic Presley gave a brilliant paper about Sexton and Maeve O'Brien gave an equally brilliant one on Plath.

I intend to catch up by blogging about each of these events over the next week or two.