[after the Second Movement of Chopin's
Second Piano Concerto]
(London: Friday, after midnight, November 9, 1888)
"My love, my rock, my book of poetry---
"this is the last time you will hear from me.
They told me you sent word of being late:
and that is for the best---I need not wait.
"I place this in the room you have reserved
"for us, this evening. I have not deserved
"your many kindnesses. Now, much defiled,
"I find I bear another old fool's child
"or Murk's---I mean, Joe's---whom you call 'that man.'"
"I have enoyed our meetings, but I can
"no longer play with you the way we did---
"not with this little one, in my womb, hid.
"I must make an attempt, a reasonably
"intent chance to preserve my family.
"And though my tears are hot, and my eyes swollen,
"both of us must declare these moments stolen,
"though very pleasant. But reality
"must intervene with full finality.
"I cherish what we shared, and it has been
"delightful. But we cannot meet again.
"And as I write, I know this message is a
"shock to you. Please do not cry. Your . . . Marissa."
Starward
[jlc]
Author's Notes/Comments:
In 1974 and 1975, I desperately hoped to write a poem in which a romantic experience was occuring in the foreground while the serial killings in London, August through November, 1888, were also occuring. I wanted to write this primarily for Lady Siderial, whose advice, on Monday October 13, 1975, turned me from prose to poetry; and who was the great love of my Junior and Senior years (although I expressed it only in the clumsiest and most immature way). I realized today that this poem is the item I first imagined in 1974.
And, lest the wrong conclusions be drawn by anyone at all, no character depicted in this poem represents anyone I have known; nor is the speaker of the poem meant to represent myself. The awkwardness and intense desire are, I think, universal to adolescent experience. I have no more monopoly on that experience (and am glad it is well behind me) than anyone else. While I regret my impolite behavior in the latter part of 1975, I cannot ascribe fault or blame to Lady Siderial. A high school broken heart mends easily enough; and mine mended sufficiently to be open to Lady Certainly, the love of my life since 1992 and for the rest of its duration.
The dates of each poem reflect are, or just precede, the dates of the five murders (two of which happened on the same night; hence poems iii and iv bear the same date).
According to the best scholarship I have found, Mary Kelly was not a drab, toothless, streetwalker in her forties, like the other four victims. She was approximately twenty-five years old; blond, curvacious, small in stature; literate (one of her landlords remembers she had a box of novels---those that are taught now in quality literature courses); and very personable, except when angry or inebriated. She was an escort, or what, some years ago, might have been termed a "call girl." She was often taken to the West End of London (the wealthy area) to dinner, and stage plays; where she provided both sophisticated and sensual companionship. One of her clients, who yet remains anonymous, was believed to have been in Gladstone's cabinet. She may have acquired the name Marissa during the summer of 1887, part of which she spent in France, first as an escort and then, after parting from the client, alone.
In 1974, I promised to write such a poem for Lady Siderial's amusement, no matter how long the composition period might take. Forty-three years later, I offer it for her reading. I have kept my promise.
