Last Pre-Feminist Poem Poem by Sally Evans

I rewrote other people's poems
as Lawrence rewrote Hardy's novels,
dipping the figures in another range
of colours, my language tangential,
my irrational numbers
small talk.
They did not say, 'Where were you educated? ',
'Have you got any money? ',
or even, looking round my library, 'Your husband
must be intelligent.'

The absurd sound sense of these writers
so jolted my brain,
my heart (the measured pulse) ,
my soul (which may be others')
that I took them, at their level,
a reminder of Ruskin's word -
a man I could not have remained in a room with.

How, their introductory scribbles
derided by neighbour and wife,
did they intrude upon the cheerful party
I had set up and cooked for,
bring bluebells in, chuck stilted fuchsia,
rip carnations from buttonholes,
exposing crumpled tinfoil,
a florist's wire distorting truth?

The party is ended abruptly,
guests spluttering in taxis,
keys fumbled for, a stench
of alcohol, cigar butt, traces
of canapes and broken glass.

All the refreshing morning I swept, aired,
washed and polished solitude,
promised it a sober partnership
and set my sights on daytime visions
after moonlit journeys, making accessible
at my elbow, Lawrence, poet and novelist,
Hardy, poet and novelist, Davies,
philosopher and tramp,
oldest and best of many sparkling friends,
recommending them to fortune
and a safer existence in my brain,
who enticed me
at their level

Dreamer, devourer, tramp,
philosopher, mother,
I am also self-healing
which was their secret.