sweetbriarpoet
Flower Fortune- Sweetbriar: Poetry and fragrance.
Sixty-Fifth Entry
I was working on this Plath-like poem, melodic, sad, yet somehow pleasurable in a way that projects pure anguish. But I can't seem to get into a routine like Plath did: getting up early in the mornings before her children wake up, typing for a couple of hours with black coffee in a bathrobe. Instead, the words will hit me at the strangest times: when I'm giving a child a bath, when I'm grocery shopping, or when I'm dancing in my living room. Sometimes they come to me when I'm with Edward: his beard scratching my face, the thick black hair on his head rustling against my hands. Sometimes he'll tell me what to write, pressure me and put me on the spot, making me open myself up immediately with no warning. Some of my best writings are from those times.
He and Harry see a lot of each other now that Harry is home more often. And it's strange. Because I've cut down on my hours at his house, Edward and I see each other in class and afterwards briefly, but never during those long, intellectual, mesmerizing sessions that used to invade my life. I miss them sometimes-I would sit on his couch in his bedroom, the long bookshelves shadowing me and almost oppressively dark over my head. He would stand, pace really, running his fingertips along the shelves, bringing out a copy of his favorite literature. Today, he said, it will be Kant's criticisms. And I would answer, But I cannot bear philosophy without a kiss. And my bare legs would swing off the couch to make room for him and he would kiss me....
I don't know why I feel the need to have so many men in my life. It is a curse, I feel; something that rots my insides with sugar and crystallizes my mind like burnt snowflakes. I want nothing more than to have all of them; to push myself onto them and make them become a perfect being of three with me. I think Harry knows my feelings, he watches me lately, smiling and happy, yet still awed by the way I think, the things I think, the careful complexity that is my mind. He wants me to be happy and would never say he wants me to give up Edward. In some crazy, erotic way, I think he feels proud that I can get another man, that he still reigns supreme over a handsome professor-figure who has given me half of my career.
I had my husband last night. And then, I thought of ideas. Thought of everything in my life that is perfect, that is wonderful, that is mystical and strange and sensual. Edward says he misses me, and when I look at him I can see he goes home and touches his books with his fingertips, wishing I was on the couch. But, for now, my children need a family, and as long as Harry is here, Edward will take a back seat. Harry keeps me grounded, keeps me sane and motherly and dependent on my family. Edward is my artistic side; wonderful and awesome, yet scary: "That oppresses, like the Heft/ Of Cathedral Tunes" as Emily Dickinson says. And one day, when I find that I need that again, I'll sneak out of my house, into Edward's bed, to find him still awake, deep in Tolstoy, waiting for me. I knew you'd be coming tonight, he'll say, cocky, and I'll be a child again, completely ignorant of all the world's knowledge. Teach me, will be my answer.
He and Harry see a lot of each other now that Harry is home more often. And it's strange. Because I've cut down on my hours at his house, Edward and I see each other in class and afterwards briefly, but never during those long, intellectual, mesmerizing sessions that used to invade my life. I miss them sometimes-I would sit on his couch in his bedroom, the long bookshelves shadowing me and almost oppressively dark over my head. He would stand, pace really, running his fingertips along the shelves, bringing out a copy of his favorite literature. Today, he said, it will be Kant's criticisms. And I would answer, But I cannot bear philosophy without a kiss. And my bare legs would swing off the couch to make room for him and he would kiss me....
I don't know why I feel the need to have so many men in my life. It is a curse, I feel; something that rots my insides with sugar and crystallizes my mind like burnt snowflakes. I want nothing more than to have all of them; to push myself onto them and make them become a perfect being of three with me. I think Harry knows my feelings, he watches me lately, smiling and happy, yet still awed by the way I think, the things I think, the careful complexity that is my mind. He wants me to be happy and would never say he wants me to give up Edward. In some crazy, erotic way, I think he feels proud that I can get another man, that he still reigns supreme over a handsome professor-figure who has given me half of my career.
I had my husband last night. And then, I thought of ideas. Thought of everything in my life that is perfect, that is wonderful, that is mystical and strange and sensual. Edward says he misses me, and when I look at him I can see he goes home and touches his books with his fingertips, wishing I was on the couch. But, for now, my children need a family, and as long as Harry is here, Edward will take a back seat. Harry keeps me grounded, keeps me sane and motherly and dependent on my family. Edward is my artistic side; wonderful and awesome, yet scary: "That oppresses, like the Heft/ Of Cathedral Tunes" as Emily Dickinson says. And one day, when I find that I need that again, I'll sneak out of my house, into Edward's bed, to find him still awake, deep in Tolstoy, waiting for me. I knew you'd be coming tonight, he'll say, cocky, and I'll be a child again, completely ignorant of all the world's knowledge. Teach me, will be my answer.
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