New Statesmen - drafts of poem and some stupid comments - prize for the best! "A selfish, self-involved, self-indulgent navel-gazer with daddy issues offed herself leaving her kids without a mother because the world revolved around her and it wasn't paying enough attention for her liking. Really, is there anything more to know..."
What happened that night? Your final night.
Double, treble exposure
Over everything. Late afternoon, Friday,
My last sight of you alive.
Burning your letter to me, in the ashtray,
With that strange smile. Had I bungled your plan?
Had it surprised me sooner than you purposed?
Had I rushed it back to you too promptly?
One hour later--- you would have been gone
Where I could not have traced you.
I would have turned from your locked red door
That nobody would open
Still holding your letter,
A thunderbolt that could not earth itself.
That would have been electric shock treatment
Repeated over and over, all weekend.
As often as I read it, or thought of it.
That would have remade my brains, and my life.
The treatment that you planned needed some time.
I cannot imagine
How I would have got through that weekend.
I cannot imagine. Had you plotted it all?
Your note reached me too soon---that same day,
Friday afternoon, posted in the morning.
The prevalent devils expedited it.
That was one more stroke of ill-luck
Drawn against you by the Post Office
And added to your load. I moved fast,
Through the snow-blue, February, London twilight.
Wept with relief when you opened the door.
A huddle of riddles in solution. Precocious tears
That failed to interpret to me, failed to divulge
Their real import. But what did you say
Over the smoking shards of that letter
So carefully annihilated, so calmly,
That let me release you, and leave you
To blow its ashes off your plan---off the ashtray
Against which you would lean for me to read
The Doctor’s phone number.
Had become such a hunted thing
Sleepless, hopeless, all its dreams exhausted,
Only wanting to be recaptured, only
Wanting to drop out of its vacuum.
Two days of dangling nothing. Two days gratis.
Two days in no calendar, but stolen
From no world.Beyond actuality, feeling, or name.
My love-life grabbed it.
My numbered love-life
With its mad needles,
Embroidering their rose, piercing and tugging
At their tapestry, their bloody tattoo
Somewhere behind my navel.
Treading that morass of emblazon
Two mad needles, criss-crossing their stitches,
Selecting among my nerves
For their colours, refashioning me
Inside my own skin, each refashioning the other
With their self-caricatures.
Their obsessed in and out. Two women
Each with her needle.
My dellarobbia Susan. I moved
With the circumspection
Of a flame in a fuse. My whole fury
Was an abandoned effort to blow up
The old globe where shadows bent over
My telltale track of ashes, I raced
From and from, face backwards, a film reversed,
Towards what? We went to Rugby St
Where you and I began.
Why did we go there? Of all places
Why did we go there? Perversity
In the artistry of our fate
Adjusted its refinements for you, for me
And for Susan. Solitaire
Played by the Minotaur of that maze
Even included Helen, in the ground-floor flat.
You had noted her---a girl for a story.
You never met her.Few ever met her,
Except across the ears and raving mask
Of her Alsatian. You had not even glimpsed her.
You had only recoiled
When her demented animal crashed its weight
Against her door, as we slipped through the hallway;
And heard it choking on infinite German hatred.
That Sunday night she eased her door open
Its few permitted inches.
Susan greeted the black eyes, the unhappy
Overweight, lovely face, that peeped out
Across the little chain. The door closed.
We heard her consoling her jailor
Inside its cell, its kennel, where, days later,
She gassed her ferocious kupo, and herself.
Susan and I spent that night
In our wedding bed. I had not seen it
Since we lay there on our wedding day.
I did not take her back to my own bed.
It had occurred to me, your weekend over,
You might appear---a surprise visitation.
Did you appear, to tap at my dark window?
So I stayed with Susan, hiding from you,
In our own wedding bed---the same from which
Within three years she would be taken to die
In that same hospital where, within twelve hours,
I would find you dead.
I drove her to work, in the City,
Then I parked my van North of Euston Road
And returned to where my telephone waited.
What happened that night, inside your hours,
Is as unknown as if it never happened.
What accumulation of your whole life,
Like effort unconscious, like birth
Pushing through the membrane of each slow second
Into the next, happened
Only as if it could not happen.
As if it was not happening. How often
Did the phone ring there in my empty room,
You hearing the ring in your receiver---
At both ends the fading memory
Of a ringing telephone, in a brain
As if already dead. I count
How often you walked to the phone-booth
At the bottom of St George’s terrace.
You are there whenever I look, just turning
Out of Fitzroy Road, crossing over
Between the heaped up banks of dirty sugar.
In your long black coat,
With your plait coiled up at the back of your hair
You walk unable to move, or wake, and are
Already nobody walking.
Walking by the railings under Primrose Hill
Towards the phone booth that can never be reached.
Before midnight. After midnight. Again.
Again. Again. And, near dawn, again.
At what position of the hands on my watch-face
Did your last attempt,
Already deeply past
My being able to hear it, shake the pillow
Of that empty bed? A last time
Lightly touch at my books, and my papers?
By the time I got there my phone was asleep.
The pillow innocent. My room slept,
Already filled with the snowlit morning light.
I lit my fire. I had got out my papers.
And I had started to write when the telephone
Jerked awake, in a jabbering alarm,
Remembering everything. It recovered in my hand.
Then a voice like a selected weapon
Or a measured injection,
Coolly delivered its four words
Deep into my ear: ‘Your wife is dead.’
© Ted Hughes
I know you lovely people have immaculate taste and will be able to help me.
I have to remember that I like to add a lot of extra things to my page so I probably don't want a really busy page to begin with. Also, these are just the basic examples - I would be tweaking all the colours.
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Having said I don't want a busy page to begin with, I cannot resist this. I know it's too much. I am in love with it: http://www.myspace.com/morneypoetry
Which layout do you think I should choose?
But hey!! My book 'I Am The Blast From Your Past & Other Poems' has been selected to go on sale on Amazon!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
A year of days without you.
A year of nights without you.
No more cosy rainy afternoons.
No more cuddling reading and purring.
No more glares from a cold radiator.
No little fleece lying waiting only for you.
No need to leave the bedroom door open now.
No need for cat milk.
No lilac food plate in the kitchen.
No silver water bowl for madam.
No more litter to clean up,
(I never thought I'd miss that, but I do)
Less and less fur on my clothes.
A solitary claw sheath now and then.
No new rips in the wallpaper.
The sofa will stay half-shredded.
The bedpost will count no more scratches.
You didn't get time to claw this duvet cover.
No more stray catnip mice around this house.
No more flying leaps onto my head at night.
No more tripping me up in the doorways.
No more running to me when I whistle.
It's no fun singing 'Chitty Chitty Bang Bang'
without you here to stare in shock and disgust -
(and sometimes, perhaps, a little admiration)
I wonder if you miss the poetry readings too.
Sitting patiently while I read you
the entire book of T. S. Eliot cat poems.
Or do you stop by sometimes?
I think you do.
A year of days and nights without you.
No more "me&cat" - no more you.
There will be many years without you,
this was just the first.
The years without you will never
take away the years we had.
(thank you my little darling - sleep peacefully)
© Morney Wilson, April '06
Hello, our fans.
You may remember that we like to write a parody now and then. The Hag tells us this is because we are incapable of writing our own verse and therefore have to 'steal' it from other people.
She knows nothing.
But then, she is not a poet and she cannot be expected to understand us artistic types.
We have a community called parody_city for this very purpose. Please feel free to join it. it ineeds new life and you would be welcome. We would like to write more for it but we are so overworked looking after the lazy woman here that it is all we can do to drag ourselves up the attic stairs at night before we fall asleep. We are only allowed two hours sleep before the Hag wakes us again.
Please join our community!! Even if it is just to shut us up. But we know that many of you are talented writers and we think you might get some enjoyment, challenge and amusement from it. It can be a parody of a poem or a song. All we ask is that you post the original lyrics/words first as that usually ultimately makes it funnier. Please do this behind an LJ cut.
We are serious.
We recently wrote a parody which we are going to post here and in the community. It is, of course, very good. You may or may not have heard of a poem called 'The Listeners' by Walter de la Mare. This is 'The LLamas' by Walter de le LLama.The only person who has read it so far is GHag. She was very moved and impressed by it, such that she wrote us a fan letter. We have to say that we had made an error in giving her the link to the English to AOL translator and she sent us a 'fan letter' which she ran through the translator first:
I CANT TEL U HOW MUCH I 3NJOYED UR WOND3RFUL PARODY OF DA LISTEN3RS - U R TEH MOST WONDARFUL POATS!!111!!1!1! I HAEV 2 T3L U TAHT IM MOST D3FINIETLEY UR NUMBR ONA FAN!!!!!!1!!1!!!1 OMG UR WIT UR ELOQUENC3 UR WONDARFUL WAY WIT WORDS .!!!11!11111!!1!11 WTF LOL I CUD GO ON AND ON LMACI2S!!!11!1!!1!! OMG WTF LOL PLZ L3T ME KNOW IF U WIL B DONG ANY PERFORMANCA PO3TRY READNGS IN MAH AERA SON??!??!!?!?!!!??! OMG LOL I DO HOP3 SO!
WITH!!!1111!!11!1!1! OMG LOL LUV AND U IN AEW AND WONDER
It left us feeling a bit disturbed. We got a fright and one of us fainted, rather like the time the Hag cut her hair in the bathroom without telling us (which, we might add, she has also done tonight).
Anyway, without further ado..
As you know, we have an extremely hard life doing all the cleaning up and washing dishes for the Hag. We like to use Shake 'n' Vac, a white powder (no not cocaine, although we wish it was sometimes) when hoovering the carpet. It leaves a a nice scent of freshness in the air and we just love doing it.
No we are not losers. Anyway here in the UK, it's called shake 'n' vac. Shakes onto the floor, hoover it up and voilaaaaaaaaaaaa! Much of our life revolves around cleaning the Hag's house, so this poem came out to express some of our inner enragement. Original first.
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Fanmail to firstname.lastname@example.org