HEATHCLIFF UXORIOUS

Like some rough beast making for his lair,
he slouches home across the moors, louche,
lupine, the wind and rain wuthering
round his ears and blustering with him
through the door he slams open. Mud
from his boots mars the fresh scrubbed floor.
He kicks a stool out of his way, tosses
his coat at the pegs on the wall;
it misses and crumples to the ground.

This is no shaggy dog ready to laze before
the fire, wagging its burr-stuck tail:
this is the wolf, his stance a challenge,
brooding, morose, braced for a blow,
ready to return it.

His wife in her parlor looks up from her three-
volume novel at the racket of his arrival.
Her hands tighten on the arms of her chair.
The room is warm and scented with rose petals
and lavender in a porcelain bowl. A log fire
crackles in the grate. The furniture is sparse,
but the cushions in the polished-oak chairs
are blue, the curtains velvet, heavy, made
to shut out the chill blast of the Yorkshire wind.
She is bright and alert as some moorland bird,
soft feathered, but keen of eye. He enters,
disrupting peace, ending tranquility. He shakes
his lank hair, scattering raindrops.
His eyes meet hers.

She propels herself from her chair, arms
strangling his neck-cloth, warm lips meeting
his ice-hard mouth. His arms close round
her, melding her to himself. Wife and husband,
wolf and bird, blur into one.


*Dedicated to Ralph Fiennes

WELCOME HOME, ODYSSEUS

And so he’s back, my husband,
and the limbo years are over.
Once more the king sits on the throne
of Ithaca. Now the riffraff
is gone from my house,
the floors swept clean of litter
and the pools of blood are mopped.
The stains remain. That is the way
of blood.

My old life closes over me. No time, now,
for needlework with the man of the house
in place. My days are full—servants
to scold, meals to plan, stores to order—
(Ye gods, how he eats. And drinks!)

I was pleased to see him, yes.
My heart skipped a beat—leapt, in fact,
like a dolphin tumbling in the wine-dark sea—
when he uncloaked himself.
But settled itself quite soon.
Twenty years is a long time.
(I’d forgotten how he snores.
And clears his throat each morning,
hawking and spitting like a galley slave.)

It was so long since I’d been used by a man
that his thrusts hurt me. This pleased
him as a tangible sign of my fidelity.

He’s an enthusiastic lover.
The thing is, he knows new tricks.
I have to wonder who’s had the teaching of him
—Circe, of course. A nymph or three?
Aphrodite I don’t believe—
and what else he might have picked up.

His friends are coming round in droves—
the house is as crowded
as it was with my so-called lovers,
and the wine bill’s even higher.
They acknowledge me as mistress of the house
and then ignore me, as they reminisce,
live it all again,
re-fight each battle, blow by blow
describe each mythic figure encountered
and the cunning tricks
by which my man defeated them.
Great belly laughs they give,
they slap his back, they spit.

Did I say mythic—a slip of the tongue.
Forgive me. I’m sure he doesn’t mean
to exaggerate. But the Hydra? Cyclops?
Sirens singing men to their doom? Men
run quickly enough when women call.
No special songs are needed.

At least while he was gone I had a name.
People came to see me. Let’s see how
Penelope is getting on with her web.
Now I am just his aging wife,
an appendage.


I wish that I could leave, as he did.
It’s my turn, by Hades, to drink life to the lees!
After twenty years confinement
I need my own adventures. My son is grown;
there’ll be no other children.
So why not leave him to his spit-roasted lamb,
stuffed vine leaves, endless skins of wine,
his belches and farts,
his back-slapping boyos?

Would he even notice I had gone?

ALICE

“She NOTICED me!” said the White Rabbit.
“Me! I’m just a messenger,” he went on,
“of no importance. Just a piece of furniture
to most people. But Alice! She NOTICED me!
And she followed me right down the rabbit hole.
I’ll never forget that day!” said the White Rabbit,
making a note on his cuff. “I shall always love her.”

“Oh, Alice, my Alice,” said the White Knight,
falling off his horse. “She was my first love,”
he said, climbing back in the saddle. “In fact,
she was my only love. It’s hard to meet
a nice girl,” he said sadly, “on horseback.”

“Alice? A real pussy cat!,” said the Cheshire
Cat, grinning and grooming his whiskers.
“The cat’s meow! That long straight hair,
that big blue bow—pretty as a Persian at a cat
show. And she just loves kittens! She can’t
disappear yet, and that’s a drawback,”
said the Cat, disappearing.

“Charming. Quite charming,” said the Mad
Hatter, fiddling with his top hat. “A very well
brought up young lady. But love?” He blushed.
“The affection of an older man for a very young
gel is a very delicate thing! One does one’s
best to keep it under wraps. However,
I must confess I find her pinafore . . . fetching.”

The March Hare smiled, a toothy smile. “Alice?
She had the Hatter all in a tizzy. He was her slave.
Well, me too,” he added bashfully “We all were.”
He scratched his ear with a hind foot. “Come
to think of it, there was some-thing of the tease
about Alice. One day it was the Hatter, next day
Rabbit, and then it was Cat who was the favorite.
Charming, though. But very short ears.”

The Caterpillar raised his head and took
the hookah out of his mouth. “Alice? ‘ow is she?
Nice little kiddie. A bit lumpy round the middle.
Well, she’s still a grub, ain’t she?” said
the Caterpillar indulgently, rising to his full slim
height. “Fancy ‘er? Grrmph. When she’s older,
and ‘as stretched out a bit . . . Yerss,” said
the Caterpillar, his voice gruff but all his toes
curling with excitement, “I’ll keep ‘er in mind.”

What The Dickens!

WHAT THE DICKENS?

Dickens' women do distress me,
Aggravate me and depress me.
Masochistic, self-denying,
bosom-beating, fond of crying:

Dare I say it, Lady Dedlock
Bore a baby out of wedlock.
Through bitter cold, and sleet and slush
She's punished for her girlhood crush.
Blackmailed for this moral crime
(By lawyer Tulkinghorn—that slime!)
She's forced to leave her lord's estate
And ends up at the graveyard gate.
While gazing at her lover's tomb,
She dies. O tragic female womb!

Florence Dombey, gentle Flora—
Daddy dear did not adore her.
He loved his son, his Paul, soon dead—
That small chip off his male blockhead.
But Florence blames herself, alas,
And when at last it comes to pass
He strikes, rejects her, casts her out
She trickles back without a shout
And, kneeling at her father's feet,
Repents and turns the other cheek.

David's Dora, ditzy, sweet,
Could not cook, or mend, or sweep.
Seventeen and silly, silly
David finds that, willy-nilly,
What entranced him when he's single
Drives him nuts when their lives mingle.
(How did she cope with menstruation
Let alone her defloration?)
And soon she dies. It's just as well, we
Can't imagine her at forty.





Edith Dombey, proud and haughty,
Sells herself for money; naughty!.
Dombey is the man she'll wed
Martyr'd by the marriage bed.
He glares at her and says "You must!"
With flashing eye and heaving bust
She runs away—to someone worse.
And tells him so verse after verse.
Her problem is quite simply said.
She has no way to earn her bread.

Esther of the pockmarked face
Was told she was her Ma’s disgrace.
She loves a doctor but her duty
Makes her John Jarndyce’s booty.
Esther, with your bunch of keys,
Dame Durden, Little Woman, please,
Locked into your box of virtue
What is life to do but hurt you?
In the end she finds her lover -
Her name, her birthright, and her mother.

Miss Haversham, whom love rejects,
Desires revenge on all the sex.
She’s raised Estella with that aim,
Cold and heartless (what a shame).
Her beauty’s just a bargaining chip
(She flirts and taunts and teases Pip).
But Estella just compounds the crime.
She spurns the true and weds a swine.
He takes her money, body, mind—
What is there left for Pip to find?





Lizzie Hexham. Now, she's better.
A working girl who rows the river,
Helping Father, as she oughter,
Fish the corpses from the water.
Courted by a rake and also
A pedant with a well-grown torso,
She runs away to stop their fighting
(By George, her life is quite exciting).
The rake's half-murdered but, quiescent,
She weds him when he's convalescent.

Poor Nancy, friend of Olly Twist,
Knows well the feel of Bill Sykes' fist.
She's cheerful, spunky, kind to all—
Bill thinks she's just a punching ball.
To Fagin's boys she's like a mother
But she cannot leave her lover.
Oliver she helps escape, but
She's like Bullseye, Sikes' old mutt.
Bill needs her, so her duty's plain.
She stays. He kills her. Who's to blame?

DICKENS!!!

Dickens, Dickens, they're pathetic,
Sentimental and bathetic.
Masochistic, self-denying,
bosom-beating, fond of crying.



©1995