Sylvia Plath: Poetess Laureate

Stella Vine, "Sylvia Plath" 2004

Sylvia Plath: Poetess Laureate
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“I cannot ignore
this murderous self,
it is there”—Silvia Plath,
The Unabridged Journal
October 1, 1957
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Last night—I got sick of reading
Miss James & her—Sick flux of Fear
I was bored—With his groaning
Inner voice, his—Negative icy Gush
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Just another—Old queer like so
Many male writers—Full of Smarmy guilt
Why did I get—Stuck with these
Twitchy brilliant old—Faggy failures?
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I felt sorry for—All my naïve students
Especially the gay ones—Struggling with James
I couldn’t ignore it—This murderous male
Melancholy selfish—“Jolly Corner” self
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I could smell it—It was easy to sense it
Lurking, skulking, hiding—Between the lines
If I could sense it—In James’ “Jolly Corner”
Then what about the—That Poughkeepsie kid?
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The effeminate one—Troubled by James in
Ways different than—All my other students
I met with him—During office hours
And, well, what was I—Supposed to say?
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That Miss James—Was str8t and the
Ending proved it with—His loving girlfriend?
The ghost up there—At the top of the
Old mansion’s dark—Stairs was tres Str8t?
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Both the kid knew—And I knew that it
Wasn’t as easy as—All that, my dear
So I suggested—As a good English
Professor perhaps—Should’ve done…
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That he read—Willa Cather’s story
“Paul’s Case” about—A young homosexual
And his escape—To New York City
Away from his awful—Small town nightmare
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Cather’s tragic climax—But then most of gay
Literature seemed to—Be that way back then
Cather disguising the—Storyline tragically
Naturally and the fag—Of course, dies dead
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That was when—Ted and I came back
To New England to—Teach and write
I couldn’t ignore it—The murderous Tales
Melancholy males stuffed—Down the kid’s throat
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It would only fester—Down there and make
Him sick if he didn’t—Somehow “Re-Write” it
Elizabeth Bishop—Had said “Write it!” &
That’s what I told my—Gay students to do
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Yes, “Re-Write it!”—Re-Write Miss James
Reinvent “Paul’s Case”—Retell the gay Storyline
I sensed “Re-Writing”—In myself and a few
Students who weren’t—Peanut-eaters at the Zoo
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We were the ones—Meant to be Writers for
Ourselves and others—Those Writers who knew
So many Novels—Str8t Short Stories and
Poems had this Demon—Down there in the Closet
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Not so much now—But in the late Fifties
And early Sixties with—Dallas & Viet Nam
There was so much—Fear and pressure to
Hide in “The Jolly Corner” —And not be tres gay
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Down South it was—Easier to be nelly and
Perhaps be yourself—Like during Mardi Gras
To flaunt yourself—During parades and
Gay Vieux Carré parties—I know I did my dears
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I planned to divorce Ted—And take Frieda and Nick
Down to New Orleans—Away from all the Hughes
Away from Aurelia too—As well as Olwyn Hughes
And Daddy Dearest Ted—Who hated me so bad
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It wasn’t just Ted—It was all the Patriarchal
Pricks who haunted my—Poetic life back then
I wonder sometimes—What the “Movement”
Would’ve been like if—Ted got away with it
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But Assia shot him—She shot him dead in
A jealous rage that only—Jilted lovers know
The Demon Monster—It came out in the awful
Trial that Ted had planned—It all quite nicely
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But Assia balked—Knowing Ted was truly
A Mytholmroyd Hoodlum—Who’d murder her next
Assia blew the whistle—She and Olwyn both
Ended up in prison and—They never got out
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Philip Larkin became—Poet Laureate not Ted
He’d always despised—The Easter Island Crook
The moody sullen—Monster at the Top of
The stairs was my lovely—Husband of the Moors!!!
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Sapphic Modernism—Took a definite Twist
As far as British and—American Lit back then
My Ariel Voice—After all was still quite
Alive and in a pissed-off—“Kick Daddy’s Ass” mood
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It wasn’t very pretty—The debauched Str8ts
No longer could point—Knowingly to Miss James
They couldn’t use—“The Jolly Closet “ or
“Paul’s Case” anymore—The usual Faggy Excuse
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I’d heard this Demon—It turned out to be my
Mytholmroyd Murderer—Mexborough Husband
Trying to stuff my—Pretty Poet’s head deep
Into the oven there in—Yeats’ lovely kitchen
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Assia Wevill heard—The Demon’s voice too
She knew she’d be next—“Tea for Two” then GAS!!!
Some men have it—Worse than others and
Can’t help themselves—Crazy with blood lust
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Rabbit-killers are—Nothing new, so many
Hate themselves more—Than anybody else
I wasn’t afraid—To be flawed and have
Breakfast at Tiffany’s—It was no big deal
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But stoic Ted was—This femme fatale type
Who lured women to—Their film noir deaths
Rabid Rabbit-Killers—They’re the worst
So full of despair and—The smell of carrion
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Debauched ones—Like Miss James’ double
Up there at the top of—The haunted stairs
The ghost of Miss James—Waiting for him to come
Back from Europe to meet—His dead doppelganger self
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Sick and syphilitic—Horribly used up, gaunt
His nose eaten away—His Yorkshire Killer cock
And so, my dears—Assia Wevill shot Ted
To death and ended—Up like Olwyn in prison
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I didn’t teach James—Or Willa Cather much
At Cambridge after that—Anymore dontchaknow
A Revolution took place—Amidst the British Literati
With Faber & Faber leading—The Fag Lit Avant Garde
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Miss Elliot & Miss Spender—As well as “Our Mother”
Miss Auden took me under—Their wing & launched
I read “Daddy” on BBC—The Queen graciously awarded
Me with the Order of Merit—I became First Poetess Laureate