Inside Out Loud

January through April Wash U. is hosting "Inside Out Loud." It is an exhibition exploring the issues of women's health. Tonight the St. Louis Women's Chorale, of which I am a part, was involved with a concert. The poet's featured were Sylvia Plath and Emily Dickenson. I really enjoyed hearing the soloists, especially the soprano's set.

It was wonderful to sing in a concert again, and I really felt like my voice was in hiding from being sick all this time. I realized that during rehearsal, my voice is tired from teaching all day (and here I thought there was something really wrong going on). I requested to move down to Soprano II, to lessen the exhaustion my voice feels after rehearsals. The concert made me realize that I am Soprano I in range, but singing for 3 hours during rehearsal is just rough on my voice, being that I sing and teach relatively all day long.

I'm including a poem here, which at first glance just seemed long, and I didn't bother nor have the time to really go through it. After hearing it sung, I realized, "Wow, Slyvia Plath really was messed up in the head!" Katie thought so too. We have this odd thing of just looking at each other and knowing exactly what we are thinking, and then say it at the same time. I guess that comes with knowing and being close to someone for almost 10 years. See what you think.

Lady Lazarus
by Slyvia Plath

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.

At first I thought it was a strange poem about birthdays, but then I realized it was about attempting suicide. It was very eerie to hear in the form of song. I admire Tamara Miller-Campbell, professor of voice at Washington University, for singing this piece (or even the whole set) with vigor and strength, and amazing vocal technique.