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**Trigger Warning**



"I Knew Anne Silently - My Ravenous Poe" 

I knew Anne.
you’d think 
with a name like hers
she’d be able to find her way 
out of unchartered waters.

it didn’t come as a suprise, 
then, on second thoughts, much later,
that she would write a poem for me -
and there I lay on the kitchen floor  -
call it empathy, call it disgrace, 

call it kindred dignity -

not thinking once
of a much loved daughter or son,
or how the getting to this place
of “Here” in the “Now”,  had begun; ravens’ beaks, 
like razors dipped in wrists of burgundy blood – or,

clearly, cleanly thinking, head first 
breathing furiously, mind wild and centrifugal
a mouth wide open swallowing life like death 
in an open cavern, labyrinthine streams
throwing back smooth skimming stones

in the atmosphere of an oven expelling warm gas, hissing like a snake (how apt),
so delicious, invisible, and let's just say, in the moment, bitterly dark, 
the irony acknowledged, like other poets speak worldly wisdom 
out from their knowledgeable unknowing flatulant *** , 
well you know what I mean, the asterisks rhyme with gas -

the taste of life bittersweet, comes in slow, goes fast
I keep tasting Wild Turkey American honey, 
those damned bees beating against my breasts, not my tummy, 
my mind’s a bell jar, crystalline and dissolving in the flow  
of an aura like a morphing haze of too late babe, this could be the wrong way
 
"Home" -

the inner poem, like a holy creed, 
rehearsed over and over like an Our Father,
like weddng vows to the beating drum
of a heart out of rhythm, missing a beat,
not nearly strong enough

no they say, she was never stable, 
just crazy enough to laugh in the face 
of bad luck, or God and well, you know,
the other dark lord and his lot, never late to the party, 
never not late enough, that lot.

Hughes bless his heart,
when I chose to ignite my depart,
was licking cream from the bowl
of some lush supine dark exotic panther
while I took notes in my mind Poe-like, 

what can I say to my demerit,
I’m an incorrigible romantic noir,
some would go to extremes and say,
a terrible moaning Lisa, no gold star, 
with delusions of necromancer grandeur

and here I am, holed up 
with the portal (oven door) wide open, I rest
and I ponder on how to slide away without noise;
silently, I hear the soft padded panther paws
in the back of my mind, "One day", I whisper,

“I’ll have my death of him, 
his greed has set 
the woods aflame,
his kisses parch, 
each paw's a briar...

Doom consummates that appetite.

In the wake of this fierce cat,
Kindled like torches for his joy,
Charred and ravened women lie,
they become his starving body's bait.
The black marauder, hauled by love”

On fluent haunches, 
he does not keep my speed
I hurl my heart to halt his pace
and hurl my mind without debate,
I leave my notes like poetry, I place for him, I place as bait

I think this would make an excellent poem -
adding in the present extras;

but no, we must get on with the job, 
close all the adjoining doors, 
the children, I've done my motherly duty, my chores.
I've read to them their magic kingdom stories,
a kiss on each head, I tuck them neatly to sleep 
wrapped up tight in their innocent beds, 

there they frollick
in their dreams
blissfully unaware -
I'll meet them there
eventually.

I methodically place towels
over floor and door seams,
each movement stradivarius, 
the tunes already scored, I think, 
what a marvelous poem, 

incredible music, incredible noise,

Poe-like dedicated to him, 
“that would just be like she”,
whispers he, when I’m gone, 
but not gone for long,
for there I visit him 

in his nightmarish dreams, 
he cries out loud,
“Oh Annabelle, 
Annabelle, 
Annabelle Lee

thank Heaven, 
thank Heaven, 
the crisis, the danger, is past, 
the lingering illness - 
is over, thank Heaven, at last”

he thinks,
the fever called 
"Living"
Is conquered 
at last.

And there I hover above him
eventually, succubus ghost, yes, that is me.
never a word from his mind 
or his mouth, yet it is him that I feed,
my voice on his tongue like a long kiss goodnight

he speaks my poetry now silently
like an obedient and ravenous Poe 
yet the thoughts and the words, 
never once ordinary,
all come from me

I’m never silenced
I’m a mused
blythe spirit 
incorrigible, 
always free 

always, free,

romantic me

(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)



"Then a voice like a selected weapon/ or a carefully measured injection/ coolly delivered its four words deep into my ear," 

"Your wife is dead."
(excerpt, "Last Letter"/Ted Hughes)







Sexton.
sextant.







"Pursuit"/Sylvia Plath
"The Bell Jar", Book, Sylvia Plath

"The Black Art"/Anne Sexton
"Sylvia's Death"/ Anne Sexton

"Last Letter"/Ted Hughes
"Crow"/Ted Hughes

"Annabelle Lee/Edgar Allan Poe



Assia Guttmann (aka Assia Wevill), Poet
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