Sunday, 7 October 2018

Cassandra Swan


                            C    a    s    s    a    n    d    r    a         S    w    a      n                     


                                                   Notes From The Author

                      
                                 CANDY  COTTON  KID  AND  THE  FAUSTIAN  WOLF

      Sylvia Plath was born in Boston, America on October 27th, 1932. She was a bright child who started to write poetry when she was five years old. Her first poem was published in a local paper when she was eight. Her father, Otto Plath (of German descent) was an authority on bee keeping and died suddenly of medically untreated diabetes in Sylvia's early childhood. She made her mother, Aurelia (German/Austrian), sign a document to say that she would never marry again. Sylvia had a younger brother, Warren; they were both very creative children. Sylvia's mother dedicated herself to her children wholeheartedly and she was extremely supportive of Sylvia who was encouraged to develop her talent as a budding poet and artist. Aurelia had to work hard to keep the family; Sylvia and Warren's education were of paramount importance to her. Despite her focus and her mother's support, Sylvia was deeply wounded by the death of her father. In the years that followed, it would appear that she never truly mourned her loss. This loss created difficulties in her growth process and early adult life with a psychiatrist, eventually resulting in a nervous breakdown and a suicide attempt at her family home, after staying in New York for her Mademoiselle Magazine Guest Editorship in June 1953. Sylvia was hospitalised and administered electroshock treatments and regular sessions with a psychiatrist. After a long period of containment, she returned to her college and studies with a new sense of purpose and the ability to express herself emotionally, which resulted in sexual exploration.

Sylvia was a high achiever, who would often over exert herself in her search for perfection. Her poetry and prose were regularly published in Mademoiselle, Seventeen, The New Yorker, Christian Science Monitor and The Atlantic Magazines; simultaneously she gained the highest grades in all her chosen subjects. She met Ted Hughes in Cambridge whilst studying at Newnham College; they both admired each other's poetry and a whirlwind romance began. They married secretly in June 1956. Hughes introduced Sylvia to the occult, the use of an Ouija board and he would often hypnotise her, teaching her pagan values. Sylvia devoted herself to marketing her husband's poetry and soon found she had assisted him to be a successful, well-published poet. Her poetry and prose were not so swift in terms of a collection being published. Sylvia bore two children, Frieda and Nicholas, and the family purchased a home in Devon after living in many different flats and rooms in Cambridge, London and Boston they settled into village life in England. The delightful cottage known as Court Green gave the outward appearance of ideal family life. In my opinion, Sylvia displayed signs of Post Natal Depression and sadly, Hughes betrayed his wife by adopting a mistress, not long after the move to Court Green. Sylvia took this very personally; she was shattered emotionally and angry. She did not give up, in fact Hughes' infidelity inspired the most dynamic and extreme of her works, including such titles as Lady Lazarus, Edge, Words and many more.

With Frieda and Nicholas as toddlers, Sylvia uprooted and moved to London in December 1962, to a flat that used to be occupied by the Poet Yeats no less! It was a bitterly cold, bleak winter in England; with a troubled mind, loss of weight, flue and children with colds, Sylvia still took time to write and write with immense determination. Hughes would visit her occasionally, but always went home to his mistress.
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At this time Sylvia had The Bell Jar (An autobiographical Novel) published, under the pseudonym of Victoria Lucas. A combination of the book being published, illness, cold,
a lack of moral support and the grief involved in her pending divorce, triggered a long line of
emotional traumas which overwhelmed Sylvia.

Hughes met with his wife four days prior to her suicide at her flat; Sylvia had left her children with a friend. In her depressed condition, Hughes would have easily been able to hypnotise her and use post-hypnotic suggestion to encourage her to kill herself. (In a state of hypnosis, the right and left-hand brain hemispheres synchronize; at this point the person being hypnotised becomes receptive to auto-suggestion).  Despite the promise of an au-pair, a psychiatrist and her prescription of anti-depressant tablets, on February 11th 1963, Sylvia committed suicide by placing her head in a gas oven. (After putting food and drink for her children in their bedroom and sealing the doors with tape and towels, so the children would survive). One of Sylvia's final poems – Edge – gives a poignant yet objective description of her own preparation for her chosen exit from this world; the most tragic conclusion to a troubled life, for Sylvia was truly unique.

Hughes sent a callous telegram, via a third party, to advise Sylvia's mother of her precious daughter's death, stating “SYLVIA DIED YESTERDAY”. Many posthumous collections of Sylvia's poetry were published thereafter (with Hughes at the helm as Editor) the first being Ariel. She attracted a cult following, greater than most poets do dead or alive. Olwyn (Hughes' sister) acted as Agent for the Plath estate and took on the role of mother to Frieda and Nicholas.

Hughes continued his relationship with Assia Wevill and subsequently she bore him a daughter. Yet another tragedy occurred when Assia committed suicide with their child who was two years old, by the same means as Sylvia! It appears to be perfectly evident that Hughes had a devastating effect on women. To drive two women to suicide, insidiously, by means that are not completely physically evident, is torture, indicative of the kind inflicted by a disturbed, even psychopathic personality. This type of personality can appear charming and kind; a wolf in sheep's clothing, one of the reasons why I composed a theory with this standpoint. Hughes did marry again in 1970's, curiously to a nurse; it is doubtful that he hypnotised her, as she outlived him.

Despite Hughes' foul play and often violent poetry, he was awarded the distinguished title of Poet Laureate in 1984. In the years to follow his merciless infidelity, he refused to break his silence and discuss Sylvia, his marriage to her and her suicide, or the suicide of Assia and their child. It is with great passion I have written this radical piece of work: having studied and researched Plath and Hughes diligently, daily for over a year, my findings also indicate that Sylvia could have been victim of sexual abuse in her early childhood. Her isolated sailing trips as a child with her uncle, an early tonsillectomy, regular bouts of sinusitis throughout her life, lead me to believe this theory is relevant and could explain some of her physical ailments, high-achieving personality, suicide attempts, mercurial highs and lows and subsequent pre-occupation with death. Sylvia was bi-polar and some of the aforementioned can sometimes be attributed to that diagnosis, but they are also connected to behaviours adopted by adults abused as children. Many abuse victims repress trauma; this is a safety-mechanism which delays the process of experiencing such a trauma, until the mind and body regurgitate the experience, often in women in their thirties. The sub-conscious mind has 3/

no conscious awareness; therefore the trauma lies dormant in the memory store, until such times as the person experiences further trauma later in life, which can  trigger  the original trauma to surface (as with Sylvia's marriage breakdown).

Victims of child abuse often over accomplish; this behaviour pattern is usually followed by periods of nervous debility, as Sylvia experienced regularly throughout her brief and fated life. In my work, I am simply giving Sylvia's traumas a voice –  a resounding voice  – and
confronting some of her repressed emotional pain, which caused her so many problems in her childhood, adolescence and adulthood. These traumas include, undoubtedly, the premature death of her father.

With the hope and aim to shed further light on a tragic life - for those who care to read - and unravel a complex life, Candy Cotton Kid and the Faustian Wolf was born.

We cannot exhume Sylvia Plath's frail body, to gain more proof or evidence of her untimely death, we can only hope to defend her from beyond her grave, as Hughes carefully planned to defend himself beyond his, stating that Sylvia's medication made her suicidal, inferring the medication was accountable for Sylvia's suicide. In 2001 Hughes' friend gave the letter to a newspaper, which published an article with an outline of the letter and its contents – yet another calculated, sober way of manipulating a reason for Sylvia's suicide. More recently, fresh evidence suggests Hughes was abusive and violent to Plath when she was pregnant with his child and she miscarried.

A final thought: just as Sylvia gained further recognition posthumously, should Hughes be stripped of his Poet Laureate title posthumously for the untimely death of Sylvia Plath, Assia Wevill and the two year old child Hughes fathered, known as Shura?
What do you think?



“ Candy Cotton Kid and The Faustian Wolf is a prismatic trip into the nectar of psychological disdain. It is a profound journey into the drowning world of human pain and it trades emotional melee with “the trireme a perverted dais.” It is a calling, a begging, melodic rampart that transcends the male mind to comprehend beyond its maleness and to concede a conscience that all sin is suspect of the “all seeing eye.” The richness of verbiage, the colourfulness and descriptiveness of such destructive realism, makes humanity stop in its tracts to consider, that sex is more a weapon than it is a gift of loving-kindness.”
–  Daniel Scott Batten



__________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Lyn Lifshin



              L     Y     N         L       I       F      S       H    I    N


Lyn Lifshin has published over 140 books and chapbooks and edited three anthologies of women's  writing including Tangled Vines that stayed in print 20 years. She has several books from Black Sparrow books. Her website shows the variety of her work from the equine books, The Licorice Daughter: My Year with Ruffian and Barbaro: Beyond Brokenness to recent books about dance: Ballroom, Knife Edge and Absinthe: The Tango Poems. Other new books include For the Roses, poems for Joni Mitchell, All The Poets Who Touched Me; A Girl goes Into The Woods;  Malala, Tangled as the Alphabet: The Istanbul Poems.  Also just out: Secretariat: The Red Freak, The Miracle; Malalaand Luminous Women: Enheducanna, Scheherazade and Nefertiti.



LATER,   GOING   BACK   TO   WHERE   MUSIC   POURED   FROM   THE RAMSHACKLE   PAVILION
                  
Not even a sign. Cove
Point. The dance hall
beams shuddered.
Scrubby weeds cover
where Pinky Johnson’s
fiddle doesn’t echo
in the dead leaves.
Summer nights,
aching to be wanted.
The lake’s green
breeze couldn’t keep
my cheeks from
flushing, wild to not
look like I cared
too much until some
one tapped my
shoulder. Fern musk,
trees bent into the
water. Without my
glasses, Pinky’s bow
and fingers blurred,
dancers, a swirl in the
lantern light until
the last dance, the kiss
in the center then
gliding home in
the dark, vowing not
to wash off that taste





WITH   EVERY THING   OPENING,  PEARS, MAGNOLIAS,  CHERRY   PETALS,  APPLE, DOGWOOD


The dead bloom, planted so
long ago. You never expected
much from them. It’s as if
with everything exploding, they
want you to marvel at them
too. The beauty of the plum
tree pales “short lived compared
to us.” “Yes, they are lovely,”
another sighs but remember how
I brushed your hair, washed it
in lemon juice. Doesn’t that
count?” Sometimes the dead are
 too loud, their fingers clutching,
hissing, “what do you remember
of the way I used to look?”
One newly dead reminds me of
the lilacs he left in a blue
Persian jar. The dead are sure
you would like to see them
and you would but you’re not
sure how much to say, bring
the green emerald sweater you
bought too big for one to wear.
The new blossoms must want
to make the dead tell you what
they hadn’t. They’ve been still
all winter, their season. I want
to just watch new life unfolding,
the mourning dove on her
nest, the wild plum, camellia.
But when I try to sleep with the
window open, the night bird
in blue wind, it’s always my
mother’s voice, “Honey, why
haven’t you called?”



ON  THE  NIGHT  THE  MOST  HANDSOME  POET WALKED  OUT  OF  THE  SCHENECTADY  COMMUNITY COLLEGE  READING  ALONE


Headed up State Street
it was June, still light.
Alone. I couldn’t
believe it. The last
raspberry light over
the old downtown
buildings. I watched
him pass Proctor’s,
the only lit up building,
past boarded up cafés.
I could not believe
there was not a flotilla
of women behind him.
I had not written a
poem yet, I was afraid
to ask him to auto
graph the book I
clutched. Alone. After
all the women he
left in tears. Sometimes
sent yellow roses to.
Sometimes mourned
on the page. Alone.
The most handsome.
Even years later
I could never tell him
it was like seeing
a Bugatti, a Lamborghini
somehow in the living
room to see him just
leaving alone,
strolling thru the town
empty as a De Chirico
painting while I stood
with my mother in
front of the bookstore
that no longer is,
held my breath



______________________________________________________________________

Sankha Subhra Devbarman

                                     ঙ্খ   শু      ভ্র      দে     ব         র্ম      


                                    একটি   সংক্ষিপ্ত  পাঠপ্রতিক্রিয়া


ন্তুকীটএর পর  শুভ্রশংকর দাশ এর  দ্বিতীয়  কাব্যগ্রন্থ  ‘বাউল মলিকিউলস্ কবিতা বা কবিতার বইয়ের নামকরণ হিসেবে অভিনব অবশ্যই প্রাচীনপন্থীরা পছন্দ না করলেও  লিরিক্যাল   নাম এই সময়ে  সেকেলে  কিম্বা নেহাৎই কাঁচা কাজ বলে মনে হয় নিজের কথা মনে পড়ে  আমার কবিতা কিম্বা  কবিতার বইয়ের নামও প্রথাবিরোধীআমি অসভ্য নাবিক এবং ত্রিপুরাসুন্দরী এক্সপ্রেসএমন নামে কাউকে অখুশি হতে দেখে নি পাঠক এবং আলোচকেরাও কোনও আপত্তি করেন নি শুভ্রশংকর এই সময়ের কবি সময়ের ভাষা বা শব্দ তার কবিতায় উঠে আসবেএটাই স্বাভাবিক এবং কাম্য 

শুভ্রশংকরের  কবিতায় গল্প বলার ঝোঁক নেই বিষণ্ণতা  আছে উচ্চকিত বিষাদ নেই  তার ভাষার বুনোটও চমৎকার  বিদেশি শব্দের আধিক্য অবশ্য  অনেকের বিস্ময়ের কারণ হয়ে উঠতে পারে কিন্তু সময়টাকে বুঝতে হবে শুভ্রশংকরের প্রজন্ম উঠতে বসতে প্রতিদিন প্রতিমুহূর্ত অহরহ কী ভাবে নিজেদের মধ্যে কথাবার্তা চালায়সেই আবহ বুঝতে না পারলে বিস্ময়ে ভ্রু কুঞ্চিত হবেই এই আবহ কতখানি ইতিবাচক সেই প্রসঙ্গে এখন যাচ্ছি না শুধু এটুকুই বলতে পারি  কেউ পছন্দ করুক  আর না করুক  --- পরিবর্তনের গতিধারাকে রোখা কারোর পক্ষে সম্ভব নয় সময়ের সঙ্গে তাল মিলিয়ে চলতে না পারলে প্রকৃতির নিয়মে  বাতিল হয়ে যেতে হয় এটাই বাস্তব আর ভাষার বিশুদ্ধতা বলতে কী বোঝায় সে আমার অবশ্য জানা নেই 
শুধু এটুকু বলতে পারি বিভিন্ন বিদেশি ভাষার সংমিশ্রণে পরিপুষ্ট হয় মূল ভাষা একটি সমৃদ্ধ ভাষার স্বতোশ্চল প্রবাহমানতা বজায় থাকে এইভাবেই শুভ্রশংকরের মতো তরুণ  কবিরা ভগীরথের ভূমিকায় অবতীর্ণ হয়

ভালো লাগে   তার  কাব্যভাষা ভালো লাগে  তার স্পষ্ট উচ্চারন, ‘‘রিফিল শব্দের বিরুদ্ধে গিয়ে/ শূন্যস্থানগুলো খালি রাখলেই মঙ্গল/এই সুযোগে, আরেকটা ডটপেন দিয়ে/ তার ক্ষেত্রফল টুকে রাখা যায়’’ ( একটি কলম দিয়ে)
 এরকমই আর একটি চমৎকার কবিতা বাউল মলিকিউলস, ‘‘তুমি আমি যেখানে বসি , তার ঠিক মাঝখানে/ মোম রাখা হয় তোমার ভাইয়া শিখার চারদিকে/ এঁকে দেয় লবণের অরবিট/ ......ছাদে ঝূলছে কথাঘাস  কুয়াশাটুপুর/ দুপারের মোম গলিয়ে, একতারা বাজাচ্ছে/ বাউল মলিকিউলস’’
কলুষিত নগরজীবনের  যথার্থ প্রতিচ্ছবি হয়ে উঠেছে  ‘হাওয়াই’  কবিতাটি, ‘‘ টিভিতে দেখিবাউলেরও মরশুম আছে/ নেশায় পেশায় মিলেছে মিথেন/ ...ইশ্বরের ভুল নাস্তিকের গালি/ ডাস্টবিনে বিভূতিভূষণ ছিঁড়ছে পাঁচালি’’
প্রজন্মের আশা নিরাশার কথা তির্যক ভঙ্গিমায় ব্যক্ত হয়েছেজাদুই  কেটলিকবিতায়: ‘‘কেবিনে রোগা বাতির টিমটিম/ সেই কবে থেকে ভুল দিক দেখাচ্ছে অসভ্য কম্পাস/ ...সময়ের ইতিহাস...অ্যারাবিয়ান নাইটস/...এই দৃশ্য এঁকেছি / আমি একা পাইরেট’’

 তৃপ্তিতে দ্বার রুদ্ধ করে সংক্ষিপ্ত চতুষ্কোণ ক্ষেত্রফলে কে বাস করতে চায়! অতৃপ্তিবোধের অঙ্কুশাঘাতে রক্তাত্ত হয় অনুভবী  তারুণ্য, তাই সে জীবন-অন্বেষায় বেরোয় অভিযানে বেরোলে কত ঝঞ্ঝা ঝড় সইতে হয়, অজানা পথে পেরোতে হয় কত চড়াই উৎরোই তৈরি হয় তারপর  নতুন দিশা নতুন পথ পরিশ্রম সার্থক হয় পরের  প্রজন্ম আবার সেই পথেই এগিয়ে চলার সংকেতে উদীপ্ত হয় শুভ্রশংকরের  কলমে তাই দীপ্ত হয় তারুণ্যের চিরন্তন ভাষ্য, ‘‘সব ডোর ছিঁড়ে কাটিয়েছি ঘোর, এখনো দিল মাঙ্গে মোর’’ (বিরহের ককরোচ

বি হিসেবে শুভ্রশংকর পূর্ণতার পথে এগিয়ে চলেছে বিষয়ে নিঃসন্দিহান আমি তবে চলার  পথে শুভ্রশংকরকে মনে রাখতে হবে দু চারটি কথা কবিতার বৈশ্বিক ভাষাই একমাত্র শেষ কথা নয়; স্থানীয় বা আঞ্চলিক মাটি এবং  সংস্কৃতির স্পর্শ  না থাকলে নিজস্বতা গড়ে তোলা সম্ভব হয় না কথাটা গুরুত্বপূর্ণ এবং বিষয়ে ভাবতে হবে সিরিয়াসলি নতুবা কবিতা হিসেবে সৃজনশীলতা সার্থক হয়ে উঠলেও কবি হিসেবে অন্যান্য কবিদের ভিড়ে মিশে যাওয়ার শঙ্কা থেকে যায় ষোল আনানিজস্ব ফুটপ্রিন্ট বা পদচিহ্ন তৈরি করতে হবে দীক্ষিত  পাঠক যেন কবিতার প্রথম লাইন পড়েই বলতে পারে, হ্যাঁ এইতো শুভ্রশংকরের কবিতা স্বতন্ত্র সত্তা গড়ে তোলা  দরকার  তাই প্রত্যেক কবির   তার জন্য অবশ্যই  প্রয়োজন  ব্যাপক অধ্যয়ন, পর্যবেক্ষণ আর চর্চা 




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