Oh, that was thirty-seven years ago;
and she is dead---still celebrated as
a novelist of extraordinary
imagination, my stepsister, Mary.
Her memory, in England, is held sacred;
to me, that just extends my rage and hatred
for her, and all her stupid books and tales.
Often I think back to that sight of her,
one day in June, an early morning hour:
clad scantilly in her cropped nightshirt and
those sky-blue, thigh-high socks (the soles grass-stained
from her brief walkabout, outside, at dawn),
scribbling the words of the ghost story she
had thought of in response to Lord Byron's---
my former lover's---proposition of
a ghost story contest among us five.
Of course, he really meant just four of us:
he knew I had no skill at all with words.
And anything I might have written would
have been only a shallow imitation
of something else. And thus, this aggravation
with my stepsister and her dilligence
scribbling that ragged first draft that became
her novel, Frankenstein. I think she did
feel sorry for that monstrous wretch of whom
she dreamed of one late June night while in bed
with Percy Byshe, who really wanted me
but slept with her. Yet whenever did she
feel---or make some effort to feel---for me
the least of any human sympathy,
much less a real---profound---comradery.
Of course, I was not nearly as well-read
as she was (home-schooled by the many books
her father owned); truthfully, I had no
desire to read at all. But, stupid as
a rock that blocks the plowman's dented plow,
I had no choice but this: to imitate
her any time I could, and, if that failed,
to mess with her mind and her feelings, and
to do so for the bloody fun of it.
She whored herself to Shelley, so I spread
my legs for Byron (and he also knew
that Percy Byshe desired---and was obsessed
with---me, but slept with her; I guess those socks
gave him some small attraction to her). That
about sums up my whole relationship
with the late Mary Shelley, author of
The Last Man . . . Perkin Warbeck . . . Valperga . . .
Lodore . . .Faulkner . . . and that damned Frankenstein.
Who, tell me who---please---can hope to compete
with that kind of stellar accomplishment?
Daily, even hourly, those titles swirl
through my soul to remind me of my gross
incompetence with words---that I cannot
assemble a short story much less a
full novel. Is it any wonder to
you that I resent the hell out of her
and her books, and her much undeserved fame?
I whored myself to Byron, that clubfoot,
because she whored to Percy Byshe, although
he wanted me yet always slept with her.
And so I was compelled to mess with her;
my purpose in life is to mess with her.
Though she is dead, I will not cease from this---
the only way that I can prove myself,
the only way to be remembered now.
When we arrived at Byron's rented house,
the Villa Diodati, she told me
that John Milton, the Poet, once stayed here.
I did not even know who Milton was.
A cropped nightshirt, and sky-blue, thigh-high socks
(the soles grass-stained from walks at dawn's first light);
scribbles on pages, almost too sloppy
to be deciphered, that, in time, become
the path to my stepsister's dubious fame,
and monsters that her books became to me:
monsters that well deserve the wrath and ire
that met the thing that Frankenstein had put
together from the carcasses he snatched.
Toward her achievement, I shall always bear
a most resentful, seething and raw hatred---
not too early, and never, now, belated.
Starward
To receive a dedication is a
To receive a dedication is a great honor, but to have a great poem dedicated to me is an overwhelming gift.
When you expressed your plans to write a poem from the viewpoint of Claire I was intrigued, so it was a thrill that your vision came to fruition, and with breathtaking triumph.
To observe the nymph-like author through the eyes of a narcissistic rival told us perhaps more about the gifted legend than a first person account. Though her memory is filtered through a shade of bitterness, the author shines through in your very moving and resplendent descriptions.
That she was clad in the now iconic, thigh-high, blue socks, stained, like green kisses, by the adoring Earth was highly significant. There's a sweeping sense of abandon and a celestial sensuality in those socks, much to the aggravation of the woman in her shadow, and it didn't help that Mary was etching the first glimmers of a literary firestorm.
They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, so Mary must have found some satisfaction in this even while being the target of cruel jealousy. Even in death, Mary loomed victorious, and this sense of absolute defeat was captured, with flawless, blazing poetics, in the line: "and monsters that her books became to me".
A vision accomplished. Applause!
OMG, this is overwhelming
OMG, this is overwhelming kind and understanding. I had a very difficult time writing the poem---trying to keep Claire's big mouth within the iambic pentameter, and trying to imagine, from the emotional not the historical view, her enormous hatred toward Mary. And, your phrase"nymph like" almost brought tears to my eyes, because she was very small in stature, and with an ethereal beauty that attracted a lot of suitors both before and after Percy's death. Much to Claire's chagrin, Byron propositioned Mary several times (bad behavior, typical of him, but, as a titled "Lord," with access to the King, he is believed to have notified William IV of the very minimum child support that Sir Timothy provided his grandson).
Literary firestorm? What a compliment you have given to Mary, within your wonderful comment that has just knocked me over. When I was an undergrad, and being pressured to drop her from my sophomore project, I was told that she had no real literary talent. Yet, when I asked why her publishers---who were in the business to make money---kept publishing her novels; and why she was being read by people as highly placed as William IV himself; those supposedly profound and well-read scholars could not give me an answer more than a shrug of the shoulders.
I think I could write a whole novel about this comment and still not even scratch the surface of my appreciation. I have loved the cinematic effects of her work since 1963, and her words and the personality they convey, since 1967. (BTW, my copy of that edition I first read in 67 has arrived, whoo-hoo!).
I am so grateful for your compliment on the line "the monsters that her books became to me," and I simply tried to turn my appreciation of her accomplishment to a dis-appreciation (is that even a word?), allowing Claire to express the opposite of what I feel. Claire would have fit in well with my professors at college. And I have seen their prejudice dramatically overturned.
And if someone in the History department ever speaks of my defiance of the academic structure, I will be quite happy to say, "Because she's still my girl."
THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU for your comment!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
J-9th94
You silenced great scholars.
You silenced great scholars. That's no small thing! You gave an impressive rebuttal to their pseudo-intellectual snobbery.
It truly is an honor and a great pleasure to dive into these historical intrigues. I can imagine how difficult it is to set them to verse, but you always pull it off with flourished style and intensity.
I'm deeply moved by your words of appreciation. You're forever welcome!
As land dwelling creatures in
As land dwelling creatures in a wide and often wild world we travel and connect with our habitation - perhaps a grounding that is typified by socks and grass stains as a feature of several of your poems. It is interesting how we are schooled and influenced by those who have gone before us and if we are so fortunate and disposed enough by our peers and contemporaries. Which of the next generation shall be marked by the ink that dries thoroughly on our sheaves!? Thanks for sharing.
here is poetry that doesn't always conform
galateus, arkayye, arqios,arquious, crypticbard, excalibard, wordweaver
Thank you so much for that
Thank you so much for that insightful comment. The socks, as you pointed out, are a symbol that occurs often in my poetry, and is a unifying concept, I applaud your perceptions, of this and my other poems that you have commented, and I am grateful for your visit to this poem.
J-9th94