Bloom's Literary Themes - ymerleksi - home
Bloom's Literary Themes - ymerleksi - home
Bloom's Literary Themes - ymerleksi - home
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The Poetry of Anne Sexton 209<br />
complicity in this complicated lie, she will provide her child with a<br />
way to escape its implications; or if not to escape them entirely, then<br />
to know that the trap lies baited for her.<br />
But I have called Anne Sexton Oedipus, and Oedipus wanted to<br />
marry his mother, not to harm her. Sexton’s Oedipus/Anne knows<br />
that the mother is the “first overthrown love” for both sexes, and<br />
that the differentiation of desire in males and females occurs later.<br />
It is my contention that Oedipus/Anne does “slay” her mother and<br />
“marry” her father, just as Oedipus slew his father and married his<br />
mother. That Sexton thought herself guilty of her mother’s death,<br />
and of marrying her father, is explicit throughout her canon. (In<br />
“All My Pretty Ones,” she also acknowledges the possibility of an<br />
unconscious guilt connected with her father’s death). Here I will<br />
concentrate on her self-perception of this deadly configuration in<br />
three poems ranging throughout her career: “The Double Image,”<br />
(Bedlam); “Those Times . . .” (Live or Die); and “Divorce, Thy Name<br />
is Woman” (45 Mercy Street). In “Double Image,” she is accused of<br />
her mother’s death; in “Those Times” she acknowledges this unintentional<br />
sin; and in “Divorce, Thy Name is Woman,” she speaks of her<br />
“marriage” throughout life to her father. This is what Oedipus must<br />
discover himself guilty of: the murder of the parent of the same sex,<br />
and forbidden incest with the parent of the opposite sex.<br />
“The Double Image” includes one of the most startling and<br />
frightening of Sexton’s stanzas, made more so by the clever facility<br />
and unexpectedness of the rhyme:<br />
They hung my portrait in the chill<br />
north light, matching<br />
me to keep me well,<br />
Only my mother grew ill.<br />
She turned from me, as if death were catching,<br />
as if death transferred,<br />
as if my dying had eaten inside of her.<br />
That August you were two, but I timed my days with doubt.<br />
On the first of September she looked at me<br />
and said I gave her cancer.<br />
They carved her sweet hills out<br />
and still I couldn’t answer.