'The Double Image' by Anne Sexton

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1.I am thirty this November.
You are still small, in your fourth year.
We stand watching the yellow leaves go queer,
flapping in the winter rain.
falling flat and washed. And I remember
mostly the three autumns you did not live here.
They said I'd never get you back again.
I tell you what you'll never really know:
all the medical hypothesis
that explained my brain will never be as true as these
struck leaves letting go.I, who chose two times
to kill myself, had said your nickname
the mewling mouths when you first came;
until a fever rattled
in your throat and I moved like a pantomine
above your head. Ugly angels spoke to me. The blame,
I heard them say, was mine. They tattled
like green witches in my head, letting doom
leak like a broken faucet;
as if doom had flooded my belly and filled your bassinet,
an old debt I must assume.Death was simpler than I'd thought.
The day life made you well and whole
I let the witches take away my guilty soul.
I pretended I was dead
until the white men pumped the poison out,
putting me armless and washed through the rigamarole
of talking boxes and the electric bed.
I laughed to see the private iron in that hotel.
Today the yellow leaves
go queer. You ask me where they go I say today believed
in itself, or else it fell.Today, my small child, Joyce,
love your self's self where it lives.
There is no special God to refer to; or if there is,
why did I let you grow
in another place. You did not know my voice
when I came back to call. All the superlatives
of tomorrow's white tree and mistletoe
will not help you know the holidays you had to miss.
The time I did not love
myself, I visited your shoveled walks; you held my glove.
There was new snow after this.2.They sent me letters with news
of you and I made moccasins that I would never use.
When I grew well enough to tolerate
myself, I lived with my mother, the witches said.
But I didn't leave. I had my portrait
done instead.Part way back from Bedlam
I came to my mother's house in Gloucester,
Massachusetts. And this is how I came
to catch at her; and this is how I lost her.
I cannot forgive your suicide, my mother said.
And she never could. She had my portrait
done instead.I lived like an angry guest,
like a partly mended thing, an outgrown child.
I remember my mother did her best.
She took me to Boston and had my hair restyled.
Your smile is like your mother's, the artist said.
I didn't seem to care. I had my portrait
done instead.There was a church where I grew up
with its white cupboards where they locked us up,
row by row, like puritans or shipmates
singing together. My father passed the plate.
Too late to be forgiven now, the witches said.
I wasn't exactly forgiven. They had my portrait
done instead.3.All that summer sprinklers arched
over the seaside grass.
We talked of drought
while the salt-parched
field grew sweet again. To help time pass
I tried to mow the lawn
and in the morning I had my portrait done,
holding my smile in place, till it grew formal.
Once I mailed you a picture of a rabbit
and a postcard of Motif number one,
as if it were normal
to be a mother and be gone.They hung my portrait in the chill
north light, matching
me to keep me well.
Only my mother grew ill.
She turned from me, as if death were catching,
as if death transferred,
as if my dying had eaten inside of her.
That August you were two, by I timed my days with doubt.
On the first of September she looked at me
and said I gave her cancer.
They carved her sweet hills out
and still I couldn't answer.4.That winter she came
part way back
from her sterile suite
of doctors, the seasick
cruise of the X-ray,
the cells' arithmetic
gone wild. Surgery incomplete,
the fat arm, the prognosis poor, I heard
them say.During the sea blizzards
she had here
own portrait painted.
A cave of mirror
placed on the south wall;
matching smile, matching contour.
And you resembled me; unacquainted
with my face, you wore it. But you were mine
after all.I wintered in Boston,
childless bride,
nothing sweet to spare
with witches at my side.
I missed your babyhood,
tried a second suicide,
tried the sealed hotel a second year.
On April Fool you fooled me. We laughed and this
was good.5.I checked out for the last time
on the first of May;
graduate of the mental cases,
with my analysts's okay,
my complete book of rhymes,
my typewriter and my suitcases.All that summer I learned life
back into my own
seven rooms, visited the swan boats,
the market, answered the phone,
served cocktails as a wife
should, made love among my petticoatsand August tan. And you came each
weekend. But I lie.
You seldom came. I just pretended
you, small piglet, butterfly
girl with jelly bean cheeks,
disobedient three, my splendidstranger. And I had to learn
why I would rather
die than love, how your innocence
would hurt and how I gather
guilt like a young intern
his symptons, his certain evidence.That October day we went
to Gloucester the red hills
reminded me of the dry red fur fox
coat I played in as a child; stock still
like a bear or a tent,
like a great cave laughing or a red fur fox.We drove past the hatchery,
the hut that sells bait,
past Pigeon Cove, past the Yacht Club, past Squall's
Hill, to the house that waits
still, on the top of the sea,
and two portraits hung on the opposite walls.6.In north light, my smile is held in place,
the shadow marks my bone.
What could I have been dreaming as I sat there,
all of me waiting in the eyes, the zone
of the smile, the young face,
the foxes' snare.In south light, her smile is held in place,
her cheeks wilting like a dry
orchid; my mocking mirror, my overthrown
love, my first image. She eyes me from that face
that stony head of death
I had outgrown.The artist caught us at the turning;
we smiled in our canvas home
before we chose our foreknown separate ways.
The dry redfur fox coat was made for burning.
I rot on the wall, my own
Dorian Gray.And this was the cave of the mirror,
that double woman who stares
at herself, as if she were petrified
in time -- two ladies sitting in umber chairs.
You kissed your grandmother
and she cried.7.I could not get you back
except for weekends. You came
each time, clutching the picture of a rabbit
that I had sent you. For the last time I unpack
your things. We touch from habit.
The first visit you asked my name.
Now you will stay for good. I will forget
how we bumped away from each other like marionettes
on strings. It wasn't the same
as love, letting weekends contain
us. You scrape your knee. You learn my name,
wobbling up the sidewalk, calling and crying.
You can call me

Editor 1 Interpretation

The Double Image by Anne Sexton - A Masterpiece of Confessional Poetry

The Double Image is a poem written by Anne Sexton, a prominent American poet who was known for her confessional style of writing. Published in 1960, this poem is a powerful portrayal of the complexity of human emotions and the struggle to find meaning in an increasingly fragmented world.

At its core, The Double Image is a poem about the duality of life and the search for identity. Sexton explores the idea that we all have a public face that we show to the world, and a private face that we keep hidden from others. This theme is reflected in the title of the poem, which suggests that there is more to our lives than what we show on the surface.

The poem is divided into three sections, with each section exploring a different aspect of the double image. In the first section, Sexton introduces the idea of the public and private self, and the struggle to reconcile these two identities. She writes:

"I am two women. One wants to have all the joy, passion and adventure that life can give me. The other wants to be a slave to routine, to family life, to the things that can be planned and achieved."

Here, Sexton is acknowledging the conflict between our desire for freedom and our need for security. She recognizes that we all have a dual nature, and that this duality can be both liberating and limiting.

The second section of the poem delves deeper into the idea of the double image, exploring the psychological impact of this internal conflict. Sexton writes:

"I am two women. One always practical, the other prone to madness. One part of me wants to love, the other part wants to kill."

In these lines, Sexton is highlighting the tension between our rational and emotional selves. She suggests that we all have a dark side that we struggle to control, and that this struggle can drive us to the brink of insanity.

The final section of the poem offers a more hopeful perspective on the double image, suggesting that it is possible to find a sense of balance and harmony in our lives. Sexton writes:

"But I am learning to be two-handed, to be both plodder and adventurer, to move back and forth between these two parts of myself."

Here, Sexton is suggesting that by embracing both our practical and emotional sides, we can find a way to live a more fulfilling and meaningful life. She is acknowledging that the struggle to find identity is ongoing, but that there is hope for those who are willing to embrace their dual nature.

Throughout the poem, Sexton's use of language is powerful and evocative. Her words are raw and honest, and she doesn't shy away from the darker aspects of human experience. She uses vivid metaphors and imagery to bring her ideas to life, creating a sense of immediacy and intimacy that draws the reader in.

For example, in the lines "I am two women. One wears a brassiere, the other a bustier. One wants to be an intellectual, the other thinks she is a good hobbyist," Sexton uses clothing as a symbol of identity. The brassiere represents the practical, rational self, while the bustier represents the emotional, sensual self. By using these images, Sexton is able to convey the idea of duality in a way that is both accessible and relatable.

Another powerful metaphor in the poem is the idea of the two-handed clock. Sexton writes:

"I am two women. I am two separate trapezoids. One has the grainy surface of reality; the other is dreamy, vague and impersonal."

Here, Sexton is using the image of the two-handed clock to represent the duality of life. The clock has two hands that move at different speeds, just as we have two sides to our identity that may move at different paces. The grainy surface of reality represents the practical, rational self, while the dreamy, vague and impersonal side represents the emotional, intuitive self.

In conclusion, The Double Image is a masterpiece of confessional poetry that explores the complexity of human identity. Sexton's use of language is powerful and evocative, and she is able to convey the idea of duality in a way that is both accessible and relatable. The poem is a testament to the power of poetry to illuminate the human experience, and it remains a timeless work of art that speaks to readers across generations.

Editor 2 Analysis and Explanation

The Double Image: A Masterpiece of Poetry

Anne Sexton, one of the most celebrated poets of the 20th century, wrote The Double Image in 1960. The poem is a powerful and haunting exploration of the duality of human nature and the struggle to reconcile conflicting emotions. It is a masterpiece of poetry that continues to captivate readers with its raw honesty and vivid imagery.

The Double Image is a deeply personal poem that reflects Sexton's own struggles with mental illness and the pressures of societal expectations. The poem is divided into three stanzas, each of which explores a different aspect of the double image. The first stanza introduces the concept of the double image and sets the tone for the rest of the poem. The second stanza delves deeper into the conflicting emotions that the speaker experiences, while the third stanza offers a glimmer of hope for resolution.

The poem begins with the line "I am thirty this November," which immediately establishes the speaker's age and sets the stage for the exploration of the double image. The speaker goes on to describe herself as "a scared child" and "a woman," highlighting the duality of her nature. She is both vulnerable and strong, childlike and mature. This duality is further emphasized by the repetition of the phrase "two selves" throughout the poem.

The second stanza is where the poem really comes alive. The speaker describes the conflicting emotions that she experiences, such as "love and hate" and "fear and courage." She is torn between her desire to be loved and her fear of rejection, between her need for independence and her longing for connection. These conflicting emotions are beautifully captured in the lines "I am two women, one wants to have all the joy, the other to mourn; one is a woman fighting for her life, the other hides in her room."

The third stanza offers a glimmer of hope for resolution. The speaker acknowledges that she is "tired of being two people" and longs to be whole. She recognizes that the double image is a product of societal expectations and the pressure to conform. She longs to break free from these constraints and be true to herself. The final lines of the poem, "I am tired of my mouth, my breasts, my ignorance and my face," are a powerful statement of self-acceptance and a rejection of societal norms.

The Double Image is a masterpiece of poetry that continues to resonate with readers today. It is a powerful exploration of the duality of human nature and the struggle to reconcile conflicting emotions. The poem is deeply personal and reflects Sexton's own struggles with mental illness and societal expectations. It is a testament to the power of poetry to capture the complexities of the human experience and offer hope for resolution.

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