Do poets share sometimes a twinning as also a contrariness in their ambiguous ambivalence(?)?
Like a hearse slowly pulling away in its aloneness (and freedom?); does a corpse
feel alone in death or finally freed? Like the blackness of the vehicle that takes it
into its sombre grave to be buried into an earth (or into an unimagined dimension more palpably expansive and
intense?). What do we think is death? Is it a moment of sobriety, that reflects on the purpose of life, in fast motion?
What do you make of your acquired married name Anne (Sexton)? Which itself meant grave digger and not having any connotation of sex?
You know gravediggers may always have to feel sober from perpetually contemplating the death on their hands!
And would you have, Anne, grave dug in your own suicidal death, that the motion
that stops short of its own destined terminality, visits an unsacred space,
the ghetto that it tried to escape from, encountering a far worse dilapidation
of region! Sexton, would you have exhumed yourself after your suicide to regret it!
And your confessionalism come straight back from your ghost hanging around
at your epitaph, that there is no escape from life, but in living it stoically,
even if you are a victim of other people’s cruelty! There is much disappointment in life,
even in the best of times – as you were so descriptive of walking with love in all its beauty
at the edge of the shores in the face of the oceans! Confessionalism (the genre of your poetry) is profound! But does it betray the underlying disillusion?
And must it end in suicide? You wrote suicide notes in your poems. How tragic?
Who is more deluded then, the ones who live with the lies for a lifetime, or the ones who
end their lives in manic gravitas! Who is the Hangman? Are our societal fallacies the
Executioners? And are the hapless civilisational fallouts and dropouts, the ones hung in the vicissitudes of
a mortal moribundity where life becomes even worse than the fear of death? The mortal chains
that even Tolstoy, so aptly described, as tortuous existence between life and death, like
precipitous hanging, and hardly being aware of it, until confronted by the graphic idea of it!
That this is only a space with no meaning! I shudder to think that there is vacuousness in it all.
Anne, you may have been humbly confessional in your poems, but could you have been
accused of being self-absorbed? Likewise me, being blamed of being ostentatiously boastful in my self-narrative
Does expression make us narcissistic? That the more we confess, the more we are self-indulgent?
I am confessional in my poetry with the pride of my repeated deaths and defeats,
the sacrifice in my metaphorical suicides but holding on to truths, unlike Vincent Van Gogh,
whose beauty of sacrificing to make others see sense ended in his own disillusioned suicide. I assure you all, there is a metempsychosis that enables
metaphysical truths to be subconsciously envisioned if you care to unlock them, by perceiving beyond
the veils of illusory realities. It is more profound than acquired philosophy, an unhindered belief that needs no experimentation to secure its evidence
This is what finding meaning is! The bleakness of Dostoevsky can be reinvigorated in the
seeming blatancy but powerful truthfulness of Nietzsche! I can tell you that the alleged heretics are not hypocrites like the rest of you!
Even if the so-called Pope Leo the fourteenth carries a cross for the next two millennia he
will never atone for the Church’s crimes and deception of the world of the past two millennia!
Antiquated societies knew part of the truth, if not the whole, and lived in simplicity of barely engraving their virtue!
It is the sword of the newer religions (like Christianity and Islam) that carved out the
falsehoods in all your flesh and bones; for all of you to relive their lies so fraudulently fervently and so febrilely fanatically!
And worse, the more we advance the more complex we get, and the more we compel our young
constituents to feel suicidal (Anne, do you admit to and agree with this?). As if the vicious lies of this Age are not enough, we are
becoming more make-believe! The civilisational, political, societal and religious norms and
laws our high and mighty have constructed have wiped out our astuteness and authenticity!
As if conventional media didn’t commit enough propagandist crimes, the new social mass media is making us hyper-delusional and callously strange to ourselves!
How can I then be accused of being boastful and self-aggrandising in my poetic narrative for simply fleshing out my truth and calling out others?
I am being called cruelly destructive! But isn’t honesty brutally destructive; just as War is, that it assumes legitimacy,
because long-persisting fallacies must be demolished. I have lived in defiance, unashamed
that so many people called me selfishly cruel, and unforgiving. This part of me, the poetry
that seems to depict so much harshness and unforgivingness, is not only restricted to the aspiration for justice to be done to
myself, but also with the benevolence to obtain the salvation of so many multitudes of others,
who only respond to my cruelty for kindness, with ungrateful disdain!
Anne Sexton, was your confessionalism as much motive as the resolute unacknowledged gravedigging I undertake for so much of the world’s redemption?
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