Confessional Poetry
W.D. Snodgrass and Anne Sexton were both members of the Confessional poetry movement, though both resisted be categorized as such. Confessional poetry was deeply introspective and emotional, though the poets still strove to write with good form, rather than just blabbering their woes. They weren't teenage girls writing in their diaries, but full-fledged poets. Confessional poetry was nonetheless mocked for its embarrassing personal details, and perhaps too open discussion of the barest parts of the poets soul. Critics complained that all the mystery had been taken from the poetry when confession ruled the day.
One critic even compared Anne Sexton to "a drunk at a party who corners us with the story of his life" (http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/anne-sexton). The story being interesting the first time, but quickly losing all sense of intrigue.
Despite the critics, no one can deny that these were talented poets. Snodgrass' turn of phrase and clever rhyme, at least in my opinion, can compensate for any "lack of mystery."
One critic even compared Anne Sexton to "a drunk at a party who corners us with the story of his life" (http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/anne-sexton). The story being interesting the first time, but quickly losing all sense of intrigue.
Despite the critics, no one can deny that these were talented poets. Snodgrass' turn of phrase and clever rhyme, at least in my opinion, can compensate for any "lack of mystery."
W.D. Snodgrass and Anne Sexton
W.D. Snodgrass was a pioneer in the field of confessional poetry, and inspired many others, especially Anne Sexton, with whom he kept correspondence for a while.
Anne Sexton admitted that Snodgrass was influential in her writing, saying "If anything influenced me it was W. D. Snodgrass' Heart's Needle.... It so changed me, and undoubtedly it must have influenced my poetry. At the same time everyone said, 'You can't write this way. It's too personal; it's confessional; you can't write this, Anne,' and everyone was discouraging me. But then I saw Snodgrass doing what I was doing, and it kind of gave me permission." For an excellent website concerning Anne Sexton and her poetry, check out: http://jenniferuh2010.weebly.com/media.html For an interesting read that connects Sexton to Snodgrass, this links to an obituary for Snodgrass that draws heavily from Sexton's biography: http://dbrookshire.blogspot.com/2009/01/rip-wd-snodgrass.html
The obituary clearly states Snodgrass' influence on Sexton, as well as his habit of writing about extremely personal subjects. It mentions that they both lost a daughter, Snodgrass to divorce, and Sexton to her mother-in-law (Sexton's psychiatric problems led to her loss of custody). Snodgrass didn't only influence Sexton, but the entire confessional poetry movement. He may not be the first name to come to mind at the mention of the term, but his poem "Heart's Needle" started the movement that others came to dominate. |
Anne Sexton's letters to W.D. SnodgrassAfter meeting W.D. Snodgrass at a writer's conference, Anne Sexton began writing letters to him, and he responded.
Here is a link to an entire letter written by Sexton to Snodgrass: http://books.google.com/books?id=o_BpgsXOZqgC&pg=PA34&lpg=PA34&dq=WD+snodgrass+and+anne+sexton&source=bl&ots=pg-fLuhQce&sig=qjrOwgWkGI6LE0ASDZt0rtplCuw&hl=en&sa=X&ei=y0efUqLaEunXygHK7oCwBA&ved=0CEkQ6AEwBQ#v=onepage&q=WD%20snodgrass%20and%20anne%20sexton&f=false The general tone of the letter is conversational, but fawning. It is clear that Sexton is writing to an idol, and she even compliments Snodgrass' wife. It seems shocking that Sexton is so open with a near-stranger, but given the nature of Confessional Poetry, it is reasonable that someone willing to divulge secrets to the world would do likewise to any specific person. Eventually Sexton wore down Snodgrass' patience with her letters, though for a time they were very close. Here is a letter she wrote to him, in its entirety, following a visit from Snodgrass. Though the general tone is still friendly, you can sense that Snodgrass may be beginning to pull away from Sexton: [40 Clearwater Road] Sat. 7:00 A.M. [circa November 15, 1958] Dear My Dear Mr. Snodgrass. When I was a little girl I had a funny little club called “THE TENDER HEART CLUB”…I was president. My mother was treasurer and my Nana was Nice President (I meant Vice Pres. But ‘nice’ is better)…The point being, that I am a tender heart still, vulnerable, never wise, but tender hearted. And although the club disintegrates slowly, although time makes madmen and corpses of some, I am still the President of my own club in my own way. My Nana went crazy when I was thirteen. Then she was only a crazy tender heart. At the time I blamed myself for her going because she lived with our family and was my only friend. Then at thirteen I kissed a boy (not very well – but happily) and I was so pleased with my womanhood that I told Nana I was kissed and then she went mad…I tell you this not to confess, but to illuminate. At thirteen, I was blameful and struck – at thirty I am not blameful (because I am always saved by men who understand me better than myself). I am not immoral. I am not wise. But still, I am not cruel. I have no place loving you and because I let you be my god for a while, I was in need of loving, of giving love, and not wise, nor cagey, nor – just walking around wearing my womanhood and trying to keep us all sane. Failing this entirely, I give you back to yourself, with all the tenderness I have ever known for you and yours (my good night clerk in your emotional hotel). I wrote Will Stone [a coastguardsman she had met at Antioch] a reply that is so fine that I think I shall correspond with him forever. I think he loves me – tenderly and encouragingly. It has nothing to do with my life or living, and is just there, to taste when I need it. Today I need it, as I lean toward madness (such an escape, such a simple childlike full believing state)…But if I live long enough, if time keeps me whole enough and a living reading writer of my day, perhaps I will go to some conference…The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not. The trade winds blow me, and I do not know where the land is; the waves fold over each other; they are in love with themselves; sleeping in their own skin; and I float over them and I do not know about tomorrow. I am a mixer of obscure metaphor by ill habit like many minor and unmentioned poets. Kayo left for two weeks trip this morning. I need him—“women marry what they need—I marry him” (beg pardon to Ciardi)… I have been a tender heart with Will Stone and he does not feel guilty any longer (I mean, I tried and I think I helped)… My two girls play with itinerant mices and their small furry fingers hop over my eyes in the morning when I am not admitting that I am awake. After you left I washed “snodgrass tattoos” off four arms. One a picture of you. You came off with soap! The house misses you – Snodgrass is part of our family, it seems. If you misread this, I will be very angry!! I am not saying anything!! Except that Will Stone wrote me a crazy nice letter and I am writing you the like because you are a night clerk, because you are home with Jan and Buzzy and because I hope you are recovering andbecause I never meant to confuse you, least of all! Also when you read my poem I want a critical opinion NOT a friendly one. Poetry is special, is something else. As a poet I admire (not as my night clerk love), I want your real idea, unclothed from you feeling for the writer...Poetry has saved my life and I respect it beyond both or any of us. I love Maxine but when her poems stink I tell her so – because I love poetry and because I love her. I am going to a mental institution today. I am hearing voices. I am never sane, you know – I pretended to be for your visit and THAT was kind. Although you didn’t know it. I really do want a “nice” letter from you – but a critical opinion of “The Double Image” [TB] (if I knew what was wrong with it I might be sane again and get back to writing it). At haste In chaos – df453679;!.l’#!!!! Anne P.S. Please allow me the luxury of writing you this kind of confused letter without you misinterpreting it. |
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About the author:
My name is Mary Kate MacLean. I'm the short, female one in this picture. I'm your standard physics majoring, Sunday School teaching, fantasy novel writing nineteen-year-old. (translation: I really haven't a clue what I'm doing, but I'm certainly doing it with gusto)
My name is Mary Kate MacLean. I'm the short, female one in this picture. I'm your standard physics majoring, Sunday School teaching, fantasy novel writing nineteen-year-old. (translation: I really haven't a clue what I'm doing, but I'm certainly doing it with gusto)
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