Clarissa
Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy
the flowers herself
Left a priceless book in the punt
Withered-looking plants, reddish
chairs and sofas
There was a freshness about them
Stepping out into some garden, she
was a flowering tree
Fumble, stumble, and confusion
indicated
Roses blooming under glass, lips
cut with knife
Star-gazing
She smoked cigars in her bedroom
It was her warmth, her vitality
It was who made her feel, for the first time
The most exquisite moment of her whole life passing a stone urn
with flowers in it
The river which says on, on, on; even though, it admits,
there may be no goal for us
Lunch without her made the moment in which she had stood
shiver
It is the privilege of loneliness
Like a white shell-sprinkled beach,
left bare
Are we not all prisoners?
Books, letters, dressing-gown,
It all seemed useless
But there were
so many doors, such unexpected places,
She could not
find her way
The rooms were
still crowded; people kept on coming
Her look, passing through all that time and that emotion,
Settled on him tearfully; and rose and fluttered away,
As a bird touches a
branch and rises and flutters away
Somehow it was her disaster — her disgrace
Her punishment to see sink and disappear here a man, there
a woman
She had thought, it will be a dusky sky, turning away its
cheek in beauty
She could crouch like a bird and gradually revive,
Send roaring up that immeasurable delight
Friends without names, songs without words, always the best
She often went into her garden
And got from her flowers a peace which men and women never
gave her
The evening seemed ominous, figures
still
As if some august fate awaited
without fear
“I shall come back”
Her words faded, so a rocket fades
Force of its own luster burns its
way through
Surrender to it
This being Mrs. Dalloway
Not even Clarissa anymore
This being Mrs. Richard Dalloway
In his shabby overcoat alone, hunched up, staring
Sat smiling at the dead man in the grey suit
Himself could not touch this last relic straying on the edge
of the world—
Septimus had been through the war
Messages from the dead:
Miracles, revelations, agonies, loneliness
He compared it to a piston thumping
But felt nothing
Septimus had fought, was brave, he was not Septimus now
Thick red roses grow on my bedroom wall he reminded himself
He started violently
Most dejected of miseries, sing without any voice
Lay like a drowned sailor on the shore of the world,
The death of the soul—
The world raised its whip, where will it descend?
Repeated to himself once you fall, human nature is upon you
They fly screaming into wilderness
Remorseless
They desert the fallen
Clamoring: Kill yourself, kill yourself
Human nature was upon him
Repulsive brute with blood red nostrils…
He descended another step into the pit
Cold and clamminess within
Only chance was to escape
Why should he kill himself for their sakes?
He did not want to die
He found life like an unknown garden
It took one’s breath away
The suns and stars,
Sea pieces
with faces laughing out of what might be waves:
The map of
the world
But he
dared not look
Septimus wrote on
a postcard, human nature is on you, Holmes is on you
Dropped his
head on his hands
Now he had
surrendered
Condemned,
deserted— as those who are about to die are alone
The brute with
the red nostrils had won
A voice spoke
from behind the screen
The dead were
with him
He would wait
till the very last moment
He would sleep,
he shut his eyes…
Holmes was
coming upstairs, Holmes was at the door, Holmes would get him
But no
“I’ll give it
you!” he cried and flung himself vigorously,
Violently down on to Mrs. Filmer’s area
railings
Septimus had
been through the war, he was not Septimus now
RAPHIE this is such a cool project!! Your use of out of context lines creates a really disjointed but very much coherent, unified poem in both of these works. It's a cool concept - and I hope I'm not reading too much into this - because the way it responds to Mrs. Dalloway feels natural. Woolf's writing is flowery and lyrical, and you manage to maintain that sense while also writing haunting and honest poems that are still reflective of the characters themselves. NICE job!!
ReplyDeleteNicely done! You're very tuned to the language of Mrs. Dalloway, it almost felt like an extension of the actual novel. Are you going to do a live reading during the finals period?
ReplyDeleteThank you! Maybe, I haven't decided yet
DeleteI love many aspects of these two excellent found poems, but I'm especially struck by the parallel endings, with their restatement of the theme of identity, and how identity changes over the course of a life, and in response to trauma of various kinds. All the words are Woolf's, of course, and this helps us see quite clearly one of the main ways she constructs these two characters to be kindred spirits, with a major rift at the end of their youth that has separated them from this earlier version of themselves: "this being Mrs. Richard Dalloway" and "not Septimus now."
ReplyDelete