"Tulips," by Sylvia Plath, is a poem about a patient in a hospital. The speaker has just undergone surgery and is recovering in a white room. A dozen tulips are brought into the room as a get-well sentiment and cause the speaker to awaken from her "peacefulness." The speaker then reminiscences about her entire hospital experience and realize that she will ultimately have to go back to her obligations and former life. In Plath's "Tulips" the themes of purity, the reluctance of maternal responsibilities and worldly obligations, the process of losing personal identity, and the quest for inner-peace enhance the appreciation and understanding of this powerful poem.

In "Tulips," the color white is one of purity. She recalls the purity of white to describe the setting as "it is winter here" and she notices "how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in." The images of the winter season provide a sense of purity to the speaker. The winter season is known for its abundance of snow, which camouflages other colors, and the purity of the white hues engulfs the landscape. Lying in a hospital bed alone, the speaker observes the calmness of how "the light lies on these white walls." The speaker enjoys the colorless decorum of the hospital room and sees the purity of these white walls. With the absence of color surrounding her, the speaker reflects, "I am a nun now, I have never been so pure." Recovering in the hospital room, the speaker begins to feel an unimagined state of purity from her uncolored surroundings.

The speaker detests the maternal responsibilities awaiting her after she recovers. While the speaker loses consciousness of the world around her and slowly finds peace in letting go, she remarks, "Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage." After that outburst, the speaker gazes at her "patent leather overnight case" and sees her "husband and child smiling out of a family photo." Yet, the picture of her family does not invoke happiness and remembrance of the ones that love and depend upon her, instead the speaker glances at the picture and declares, "Their smiles catch only my skin, little smiling hooks." The speaker considers her family as "baggage" and detests having to return to her motherly fidelities of her children and husband.

The speaker gradually loses her identity while being a patient at the hospital. Lying quietly in a hospital bed, the speaker realizes, "I am nobody." Reflecting over her situation, she concludes, "I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses and my history to the anesthetist and my body to the surgeons." The speaker's clothes, a symbol of her identity, are given to the nurses. Her clothes are then replaced with a standard-issue gown that is worn by all patients. This act of uniformity erodes the speaker's individuality. In addition, the speaker is also given anesthesia that keeps her temporarily unaware from her own personal history and life. In the hands of a surgeon, the speaker is identical to the other patients. She is unable to stand out as an individual to the surgeon, and herself, because she no longer wears "her day clothes" and cannot recall her own history. Recovering from surgery, nurses further impede the awareness of the speaker as she recalls, "They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep." Even after the surgery, the speaker's identity is weakened as the nurses take away her pain. The speaker compares the nurses and herself as "my body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently."

The red tulips are a painful reminder that the speaker will inevitably return to the burdens of life. These red flowers are disturbing for the speaker because "they are too red in the first place, they hurt me." In a room of uncolored walls, the red tulips contaminate the purity of the room by having its red color. The speaker also believes that the tulips "are too excitable" and a nuisance to her achromatic space and newfound peace. She is even convinced that "I could hear them breathe lightly through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby." Not only are the tulips invading the speaker's purity and space, these flowers are demanding attention from the speaker reminiscent of her own children. The tulips represent the obligations of life, similar to the "overnight case," and they both serve as reminder of a previous life. The burden of life is further idealized by the tulips as to the speaker reflects, "They weigh me down, a dozen red lead sinkers around my neck." The speaker "didn't want any flowers" or the burdens that plaque her life. She seeks life without its burdens and growing pains as the speaker pleads, "They hurt me." In one final act of desperation, the speaker concludes, "The vivid tulips eat my oxygen." Similar to her reluctance of returning to her family and her former role, the speaker envisions the tulips as comparative threat of life.

The speaker only wants "peacefulness," or removal, from the realities of the real world, and as she recovers from her surgery, she declares, "I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly." Never before has the speaker been able to experience absolute "peacefulness." Family obligations and other responsibilities inhibit the speaker from ever enjoying a peace such as her current one in the hospital room. "I only wanted to lie with my hands turned up and utterly empty," protests the speaker of her wishes and she concludes, "How free it is, you have no idea how free-the peacefulness is so big it dazes you." The speaker compares her current experience with peace as "what the dead close on, finally, I imagine them shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet." Her peace is so tranquil, barren, within the white walls of the hospital room, pure and absent from the realities of life, the speaker relates this similar sensation with those that are near death.

Understanding the themes of purity, the reluctance of maternal responsibilities and worldly obligations, the process of losing personal identity, and the quest for inner-peace of the speaker enhance the appreciation and understanding of Plath's "Tulips." After the speaker curses the tulips for disturbing her peaceful state of mind, she resigns and complains, "Before they came the air was calm enough, coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss." These tulips are a reminder that soon enough the speaker's life will continue as it once had before the surgery. The speaker now knows that one state of emotions, conditions, and the concept of true purity can never exist in her world. Yet, she does learn that peace is achievable, no matter her obligations and fidelities, and the speaker will once again revisit this "peacefulness."

Sylvia Plath - Tulips The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here. Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands. I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions. I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses And my history to the anaesthetist and my body to surgeons. They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut. Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in. The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble, They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps, Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another, So it is impossible to tell how many there are. My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently. They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep. Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage - My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox, My husband and child smiling out of the family photo; Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks. I have let things slip, a thirty-year-old cargo boat Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address. They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations. Scared and bare on the green plastic-pillowed trolley I watched my teaset, my bureaus of linen, my books Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head. I am a nun now, I have never been so pure. I didn't want any flowers, I only wanted To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty. How free it is, you have no idea how free - The peacefulness is so big it dazes you, And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets. It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet. The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me. Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby. Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds. They are subtle: they seem to float, though they weigh me down, Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their colour, A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck. Nobody watched me before, now I am watched. The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins, And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips, And I hve no face, I have wanted to efface myself. The vivid tulips eat my oxygen. Before they came the air was calm enough, Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss. Then the tulips filled it up like a loud noise. Now the air snags and eddies round them the way a river Snags and eddies round a sunken rust-red engine. They concentrate my attention, that was happy Playing and resting without committing itself. The walls, also, seem to be warming themselves. The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals; They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat, And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me. The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea, And comes from a country far away as health.

 

 

Copyright ©1998-2004 by Damon Jasso