Daddy, how to take to Sylvia Plath’s ‘Daddy’? In her daddy, we see it the picture and image of a loving father under whose care one grows it, more especially the daughter. How the words echoing, daddy, daddy, daddy? It is not others’ daddy, but that of Sylvia, only Sylvia Plath. In her daddy we see it the nervous mind, the nervous heart of a woman. How is the pulsating heart of a daughter when she takes to the ways of the world she knows it not as growing under the care, affection and sympathy and bonding of her father? How did he leave them and go away abruptly? Now how to live without? To whom call daddy? How to forget the times spent under his care? The black shoe is an image as well a nostalgia which she feels it. Where home? Where is she? How her tongue? What she is peaking in? How the heart of Europe? What it outside the periphery of England and America? What wrong is it in Germany? How did it wreak havoc? How the destruction of war brought in its trail a travesty of death and destruction? Who was Hitler? How his image haunting us? How to take to the whole gamut? How the photograph of Hitler? And how to view him? So does she think of her father. How did he do the self-destruction of his? Why did he not visit the doctor earlier? A diabetic he must have taken care of. He did not hear it which but was his obstinacy as Hitler was. Had he heard, Hitlerism would not have turned into a tyranny.

Have you a schoolgirl calling her daddy with love? Similar is the case here with Plath. She is complaining against, she is calling with love. Where is her daddy? Where has he gone away?

In her father she sees it Adolf Hitler, the Aryan saga and the craze for the swastika. How was his figure? How did the American and German interests clash with? How did he look it alike? When he scolded her, how did she react to? A strict father, what did it happen to him? Why did he not understand his disease in time? It took time and diabetes wreaked it havoc ending him brutally. The horror of death, the terror of death, she could not forget it, carried it along to visit and re-visit them. How tragic did it turn their life? How the shadow of her father haunted her as she could not forget him?

How to read the feelings of a nervous girl and that too a psychiatric girl? How the care and anxiety of hers? How the discomfort she feeling it? If this be as such, how could Hughes leave all alone and could not be with? How could he be so hard of heart? Should he have not taken care of all that she needed it? Was Hughes not cruel and callous? How did he divorce here? How could he not read her loneliness! How could he choose another one for an affair leaving her forsaken and shocked! Hughes too had been jealous of her. He could not give love and care to Plath who needed it utmost.
Daddy is a confessional poem, an autobiographical chit never written in such a way before. In her daddy, the picture of his, we find it the love of a daughter for her father. Images and pictures of childhood conjure upon the mind’s plane. How was her daddy? How had it been the times? How did she lose him? Now where to get his affection and sympathy? This happens with us and we as human beings do not try to feel the pains of the other man’s daughters.
An American of some German descent, she is but clinically depressed and her poetry a study in depression, depressed as for the early death of her father, depressed as for tumultuous relationship with Ted Hughes and the ultimate separation from. Her poetry is a diary, a confessional diary. She also sees the German dreams, the dreams of Germany while painting the portrait of her father nervously. What wrong did it Germany? How the image of Adolf Hitler, what it in his Mein Kampf? Was he a role model, a war hero? Has anybody read? Has anybody tried to understand it? Though looked like a German, but was an American and what it in being too? German she did not appreciate it as was not conversant with it. If he was a German, she was but a Jew and the poem is a marvel of father-daughter relation. There is something of obsessive love in it. Tragic life she could not bear it.

Plath felt it identity crisis, the crisis in being a German, in being an American, in owing loyalties, Plath the lonely girl felt it segregated in life. The cause of her loneliness, how to say it? It might be the Electra complex or the streaks of it. It might be the desertion of Ted Hughes.

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.

Actually, Sylvia tries to see his father as a German father in the spectre and image of Hitler, Sylvia tries to see her father as an American and trying to dilute the images.

Her controversy is the controversy of life and living. Her controversy is the controversy of confessional writers and is a disputed genius. How controversial is she in her statement of life, documentation of poetic narratives and how truth is entangled in? Is life a lie? How the diary of her life?

How bits of life? How the suicidal note? Who commits suicide? Are they mentally sound? Can suicide solve anything?
She too had wanted to grow holding the hand of her father, but she lost him when was a small child. Her daddy went he away from her.

To read her is to re-visit her ancestral house, how her connections. Hitler, was he a war hero? Or, a despot? Was everything bad in him? Why did he turn into a hater of man? Plath tries to see it differently swapping roles.
Sylvia as a child stands under the shadow of the father making the pen-portrait of his.

Daddy’s Daughter can be the reply to the poem.

To delve into her psyche is to delve into the personal space, the psyche of a woman which is always shaky and unstable.

To know her identity is know that she is a German, that she is an American, that she is an English woman, which is what, we cannot.

The nervous psyche, how to analyze it? How to make an anatomy of the sentimental being?

How to lay it bare the sentimental heart, the nervous psyche, the split personality, neurotic self? She is dovetailing images, stitching and re-stitching to make the image of her father. She feels it love as for being her father and hate as for losing him. Suppose you he was a Hitler and she a Jew, a wandering gypsy fearing the clutches of, fleeing from in search of life. Why did he subject to atrocity and tyranny in the name of race and ethnicity?

How to say about the gypsy heart and pagal manna, mad inner mind? A neurotic mind, how to read the impressions and sensations of it? In reality, everything comes it out of that level.

She drags it along the effigy to talk to, caress and complain against as a child does with the doll or a neurotic girl.
From where to where? Where was his land, where did his ancestors and where did he come to?

Has she been ever to Germany? How to relieve someone’s trauma? The trauma of losing her father? A neurotic self always lies it questioning and doubting and in doubts lies it the drama of human life. Things just keep shifting and changing positions.

To read her is to come to grapple with, was Europe too discriminatory in terms of the blue eyes, green eyes and black eyes? Was Europe discriminatory in terms of Polish, German, English and American? Were the English not in terms of Welsh, Scottish and Irish?

I trying to understand her German self, her Austrian self, self American self and the English self, a German as for her father, an Austrian as for her mother, an American as for being born and reared up in America and an English as for her marriage with Ted Hughes and studies in England and above all, she is but a neurotic fiddling with her life, trying to end herself.

Daddy, daddy, the word, when we read the poem, it appears to be, a girl still goes calling before, daddy, daddy and it does the spell over with its music and magic, pain and pine in the realization of, how insecure and ignorant is the daughter feeling lonely and alienated, how the disturbed psyche of the poor soul nervous and restless, how close to her father filially that unable to walk on the ways of life and the world without holding his hand! What is it in being a German? What is it in being an American? Why to be so catholic? Why not to be humane and kind, full with the milk of kindness and mercy?

The interest lies it is her abusing of her papa, how does she abuse him? This is not that she is abusive; this is as because she loves him so much and the pain lies it in his unexpected departing which her neurotic self comes it not to compromise with.