Stillborn

After a debate with indecision, I concluded that "Stillborn" by Sylvia Plath was the best of the Bunch.  I found it very interesting how metaphors were not scattered throughout the poem, but the poem was just one huge metaphor.  From the first line, "these poems do not live: its a sad Diagnosis", I gathered that this poem may be about unfinished work that shoulda-woulda-coulda been finished, but now just waits in a notebook somewhere.  In Slyvia Plath's case, it is about her poetry that she cannot bring to life.  Sometimes I stumble across incomplete projects, songs, lyrics, or even doodles, and they all make me wonder "what ever happened this?".  Sometimes I even run into work that I thought was finished, but obviously was not.  Although I do not think of a stillborn baby when I run into old discontinued work, I see how her morbid metaphor works.

I like the middle stanza, because it seems as if she is excited, looking at her poetry, thinking "this is good stuff!", but cannot find a way to execute it.  Or maybe she did execute it, but it still does not sit comfortably in her self criticism.  The line, "They sit so nicely in the pickling fluid!  They smile and smile and smile at me", briefly puts the spooky, and sad image of a baby staring at me through a jar, but moreover make me think of when I look at unfinished work in my notebook.  And when I try to finish it right then and there, it usually doesn't seem to smile at me anymore.  "and still the lungs won't fill and the heart won't start".

The imagery, metaphor, and voice in this poem is very enticing, but also depressing.  I did some research, and found that Sylvia Plath did not have a stillborn child, but did suffer from depression.  Hopefully I understood this poem correctly, as a metaphor for writers block, and not a literal account of her baby.