There’s an exclusive club of writers, mainly poets, but including others, such as Virginia Woolf and Ernest Hemingway, called the Suicide Poets.

Being a writer myself, and over the years, having gone through various personal dark periods, I won’t lie about the fact that I too have contemplated the unthinkable. Never seriously though; and having survived this long, it’s not a club I care to join.

I can easily understand though why others, writers and non-writers alike, would take that step. We all have a breaking point. It’s too bad that some of us take our own lives, and tragically leave children, especially young children behind.

Sometime during the early 1990s, a writer friend and mentor, introduced me to the work of American poet, Anne Sexton, giving me a copy of her book, The Book of Folly. As I read bits and pieces of it, I was immediately impressed by the choice/clarity of words/imagery and emotional expression.

I quickly discovered that she had taken her own life in 1974, after a lifetime of depression. And along with another American suicide poet, Sylvia Plath, stand out in my memory. I think partially because of their beauty, but also how it, along with their talent, couldn’t rescue them from their own minds. Between the two, I’d have to say Sexton is my favorite writer.

Anne Sexton (RIP 1928-1974):




Sylvia Plath (RIP 1932-1963):






Barefoot
By Anne Sexton

Loving me with my shoes off
means loving my long brown legs,
sweet dears, as good as spoons;
and my feet, those two children
let out to play naked. Intricate nubs,
my toes. No longer bound.
And what's more, see toenails and
all ten stages, root by root.
All spirited and wild, this little
piggy went to market and this little piggy
stayed. Long brown legs and long brown toes.
Further up, my darling, the woman
is calling her secrets, little houses,
little tongues that tell you.

There is no one else but us
in this house on the land spit.
The sea wears a bell in its navel.
And I'm your barefoot wench for a
whole week. Do you care for salami?
No. You'd rather not have a scotch?
No. You don't really drink. You do
drink me. The gulls kill fish,
crying out like three-year-olds.
The surf's a narcotic, calling out,
I am, I am, I am
all night long. Barefoot,
I drum up and down your back.
In the morning I run from door to door
of the cabin playing chase me.
Now you grab me by the ankles.
Now you work your way up the legs
and come to pierce me at my hunger mark

Analysis (ai): This poem celebrates a woman's physicality and sexuality, specifically through the lens of being barefoot. The speaker's bare feet are described in detail, including their "long brown legs," "intricate nubs," and "ten stages." The speaker also invites her lover to explore her body further, calling her "little houses" and "little tongues." This poem is a departure from Sexton's earlier work, which often focused on themes of mental illness and suicide. Instead, "Barefoot" is a celebration of the female body and its ability to experience pleasure. The poem also reflects the time period in which it was written, the 1960s, when there was a growing sexual revolution and women were beginning to assert their sexuality more openly.

The above poem and analysis courtesy of All Poetry.com


For more of Sexton’s work:

https://interestingliterature.com/2023/03/best-anne-sexton-poems/

20 Famous Poets Who Committed Suicide:

https://www.ranker.com/list/famous-poets-who-committed-suicide/celebrity-lists


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09/11/2024

Posted on 09/11/2024
Copyright © 2024 Chris Sorrenti