Selected Work

        by Carolyn Howard-Johnson












        Pleading for Sylvia's Last Poem

        --Upon seeing the independent film Sylvia in 2003

        Poet friends warn me against pointing a pen at Sylvia,
        her magic too great, this shaman, this woman who uses words
        like a wand. But a muse, not one that breathes the same ether
        as Sylvia's, not even a muse but a brute, insistent, a chronic
        nightmare, forces me to revisit that moment after lovemaking,
        between the time Ted and Sylvia, Sylvia and Ted, entwine
        like a marble sculpture of Laocoon, coiled serpent limbs,
        and that pause before this dawn when Sylvia folds a bleached
        towel to cushion her head, the oven ready. This expectant space.
        This moment. I pack our wagon, pile shabby baggage
        where children squealed and bickered only that morning,
        hum by the time I get to Phoenix. A futile deed. Sylvia
        never allowed herself such drivel. Detached, no cry for sympathy
        the critics said. That time between decision and duty, that last confusion,
        her head upon her laureate's chest, believing in his love for her,
        perhaps understanding how her own conjured images of faithlessness
        compelled his infidelity, her defenses melted now, April slush.
        Then this, her first unsummoned pain, She abhors the irony
        of his constancy to his lover's pregnancy with two of his and her own
        in the room beyond, their cheeks flushed in sleep, she and they flotsam,
        rising, falling on the surface of his needs with no watery vein to guide her
        elsewhere. If she had poured self pity onto a page, just before
        that moment when she places an offering on an alter to her girls,
        closes and tapes their door, those words would not be but gestures, sodden
        grass accepting whomever's footprints. Knowing her heart, the rest
        of us might careen our aging Oldsmobiles down mountain curves,
        feeling foolish, never turn back, never regret that Lady Lazarus
        still breathes and Sylvia might understand the world does, indeed,

            listen to her poems.


        Carolyn Howard-Johnson's first novel, THIS IS THE PLACE, won eight awards. Her book of creative nonfiction, HARKENING, won three. She is a columnist for The Pasadena Star News, Home Decor Buyer and several websites. Learn more at http://carolynhowardjohnson.com. (3/1/04)


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