sariagray: (Suzie Glove)
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Written for and linked to Suzie's entry at [livejournal.com profile] womenlovefest

For the third day of the fest, I decided to dabble in poetry. When associating Suzie and poetry, Torchwood and its writers went the route of Emily Dickinson, but there is something about Suzie that makes me think more of Sylvia Plath. The bitter rawness of her words, the quiet, calculated rage, and the symbiotic relationship between life and death (in terms of style), seems to suit Suzie well.
 
 
Daddy
 
You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.
 
Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time--
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal
 
And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.
 
In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend
 
Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.
 
It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene
 
An engine, an engine
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.
 
The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.
 
I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You--
 
Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.
 
You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who
 
Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.
 
But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look
 
And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I'm finally through.
The black telephone's off at the root,
The voices just can't worm through.
 
If I've killed one man, I've killed two--
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.
 
There's a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.

 
 
Lady Lazarus
 
I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it-----
 
A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot
 
A paperweight,
My featureless, fine
Jew linen.
 
Peel off the napkin
O my enemy.
Do I terrify?-------
 
The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.
 
Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me
 
And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.
 
This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.
 
What a million filaments.
The Peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see
 
Them unwrap me hand in foot ------
The big strip tease.
Gentleman , ladies
 
These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,
 
Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.
 
The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut
 
As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
 
Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.
 
I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.
 
It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical
 
Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:
 
'A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge
 
For the eyeing my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart---
It really goes.
 
And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood
 
Or a piece of my hair on my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.
 
I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby
 
That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.
 
Ash, ash---
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there----
 
A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.
 
Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.
 
Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.

 
There are obviously other poems of Plath's that would fit the various instances and personality traits of Suzie. These were just the first two to spring to mind. Any other suggestions, Plath or otherwise?

Date: 2011-09-11 10:00 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] xrai-namere.livejournal.com
I definitely agree with Plath, especially considering Suzie's daddy issues. I get the feeling that the writers only threw Dickinson in because of they were focusing more on Suzie's (and Dickinson's) obsession with death in that episode. Suzie would totally read Plath too. :)

Date: 2011-09-11 10:03 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] sariagray.livejournal.com
Suzie's daddy issues definitely play into my selection of Plath. And I think, too, it effected her relationship with Jack. At least, in my head-canon. :D

You're right, though, and I think it makes sense for that episode that they focused on that poem (it's probably more widely-recognizable to the audience, too).

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