Posted by Wendy Yes, Woman, such logic will lead I make a black art of twilight The lamp throws my shadow a shroud to accent How many volumes are there? I'm afraid to resurrect your words, My fingerprints were meant I can not approach these books. And who could reach you now, He writes a run-on sentence Briefly he stays but lingers She stands near the piano breaks upon your shoulders The mental facility alluded to in this poem is Maclean Hospital in Massachusettles. Its a place where poets, Slyvia Plath, Robert Lowell and Anne Sexton all spent time dealing with their depression and observing its intricate nature. I came across an article in The Atlantic Monthly which explained this facility and how it shaped the poetry of all three authors. Imagination took root and I wondered how a woman might feel who loved a brilliant scholar and then lost him to madness invoked by his obsession with achieving literary perfection
on 4/16/2004, 2:09 pm
66.6.177.17
The Witching Hour
(After a visit to the mental hospital)
to loss without death.
Anne Sexton
reading my nerves
as if they were tea leaves
scattered along the spine.
toward the bookcase wall, hinting
it might be the silk dress
of Anne Sexton.,
this room's mausoleum.
All the letters, essays and poems
you have penned over the years.
Yet, they remain untouched
by my perfumed hands.
or stroke the parchment
that absorbed a prophets voice.
to fully punctuate,
your masculine body and pace
the literature of making love.
They are like strangers
aloof , casting off
anyone who might ask
for simple guidance.
when a nomad wanders the hall
stealing your footsteps. scratching
a scroll of green linoleum..
of madness, an appearance
in room after room.
in the solarium to hear
a woman read poetry.
and talks about her kind. Someone
like myself who feels moonlight
rattle between the trees, pale china
in a wooden crate. Such frail anger
every time I speak, every time
I grab hope and try
to conjure memory
from your beautiful, songless bones.
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