Poetry and Psychology: Paradox in Readings of "Music Swims Back to Me"

Throughout this course, we have asked ourselves, “What does it mean to read?” Prior to this unit on poetry and drama, the definition of “reading” seemed more or less self-evident: that is, the analysis and interpretation of written messages, though what said “messages” consist of is slightly more abstract. However, during our study of poems and plays, part of this definition has come under scrutiny. With literature that exists purely on paper, the interpretation occurs in the mind of the reader, very occasionally with input from the author. The resulting analysis is personal and individualized, and while some readings may have similar themes, their nuances are unique to each reader.

With poetry, this model of interpretation is skewed by the aspect of performance. While it is possible simply to read a poem in ink and paper, this does not express the poem’s meaning to its fullest extent. Unlike prose, poetry contains aural components such as meter and rhyme, which can be wholly communicated only through spoken word. But reading aloud itself is creates a form of interpretation that cannot be ignored by the audience; the interpretation no longer belongs solely to the reader (now speaker), but affects all those who hear it. This amplification of the reader’s analysis also emphasizes a fact that holds true for prose as well: no two interpretations, even from the same reader, are ever the same. Many people find poetry more confusing than prose, likely because the reader has to contend not only with their own interpretations, but also with the multiple interpretations of other readers who have declaimed the poem aloud.

Anne Sexton read aloud her poem “Music Swims Back to Me” on multiple occasions throughout her life. The two recordings located in the Woodberry Poetry Room’s archive date from 1959 and 1974, a decade and a half apart. This length of time is especially significant in light of Anne Sexton’s short life, ended by suicide when she was just 45 years old. So, those fifteen years between recordings represent more than a third of her life. The length of this timespan between recordings is evidenced in the differences in sound, in rhythm, and in tone.

Made in 1959, the first recording was declaimed not long after the poem was first published. Sexton reads it at a moderate clip, and takes slight pauses at the line breaks. The steady pace creates a sense of nonchalance and sounds almost as if she is conversing with someone. Her voice inflects very slightly upward, conveying an inquisitive tone that is made concrete by the question marks delineating the first and last lines of the poem. She speaks softly, her volume never changing by more than a few decibels, and as such, there are no expressions of anger, joy, or other high emotions. Together, these interpretive choices – the conversational pace, the low volume, and the upward inflections – give the poem an innocent, almost pitiful air, the sound of a lost child and reminiscent of Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. Given the context of the poem, explained by Sexton herself before beginning to read, this interpretation is profound: Sexton confesses that the poem is indeed about her own experiences as a young woman in an insane asylum. As someone who suffered from depression and mania her entire life, Sexton truly was lost, Alice-like, in her own psyche.

The second reading, recorded in 1974, captures an entirely different interpretation. One notices immediately the change in Sexton’s voice: it is nearly half an octave deeper and much more gravelly and harsh. While the first reading seemed nearly conversational, the latter is markedly more dramatic. Her speed varies much more, sometimes speeding up more often broken up by long pauses and syncopated rhythms. This is especially prevalent when she annunciates the titular phrase “La la la, Oh music swims back to me.” These dramatic elements help place emphasis on different parts of the poem that seemed skimmed over in the previous reading. Finally, Sexton’s tone while reading the poem is significantly and ominously graver. The light, lilting voice of the first recording is replaced with a deep, raspy voice and downward inflections that convey a more depressive, defeated message. Perhaps this change is indicative of Sexton’s own struggles with mental health; indeed, just months after making the second recording, Sexton took her own life by carbon monoxide poisoning. In retrospect, this grim interpretation made by Sexton seems like foreshadowing, especially in light of her introduction, where she describes the poem as a “bow to the madness,” a prophetic expression of her soon-to-be surrender to her own mental illness.

Though these recordings may seem diametrically opposed in their tone, when taken in context their dissonance creates a message of its own. Throughout her life, Anne Sexton suffered from psychological illness, vacillating between frenetic mania and deep depression. The bright, childish first recording in juxtaposition with the bleak, harsh second recording unite in a paradox that acts as a metaphor for her mental health. While taken individually, the interpretations may seem contradictory, if understood together they complement each other to express a profound message.

Wait Mister. Which way is home? 
They turned the light out
and the dark is moving in the corner.
There are no sign posts in this room, 
four ladies, over eighty, 
in diapers every one of them.
La la la, Oh music swims back to me
and I can feel the tune they played
the night they left me
in this private institution on a hill.

Imagine it. A radio playing
and everyone here was crazy.
I liked it and danced in a circle.
Music pours over the sense
and in a funny way
music sees more than I.
I mean it remembers better; 
remembers the first night here.
It was the strangled cold of November; 
even the stars were strapped in the sky
and that moon too bright
forking through the bars to stick me
with a singing in the head.
I have forgotten all the rest.

They lock me in this chair at eight a.m.
and there are no signs to tell the way, 
just the radio beating to itself
and the song that remembers
more than I. Oh, la la la, 
this music swims back to me.
The night I came I danced a circle
and was not afraid.
Mister?