POEMS SUGGESTED BY THE LIFE OF MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT (1759-1797)

by Nancy Means Wright
      (Originally published by New Spirit Press, 1992, & revised)

1

VITA: FATHER
Mary's father, Edward Wollstonecraft, was unhappily apprenticed to his father, a Spitalfields master-weaver. London, 1750

He sleeps under the loom.
It is nearly dawn:

the threads hang
in his face

like wrinkled lives:
green rust ocher puce.

They make the boy cough
but he doesn't wake.

His skin is raw
as unbleached yarn,

his shoulders pinch
like bound feet;

the body shrinks
from its extremities.

Upstairs the father-
master rolls onto

the new wife,
warp over weft,

and in the small pane window
the caged canary

whistles for work:
Up, boy. The 12-hour day has begun!

 

2

CAVE IN AT BARKING
Mary's father abandons weaving to be a gentleman farmer—but each new enterprise ends in failure and drink. At Barking: a farm with a river and woods; a young Mary writes songs, converses with imaginary angels—and defends her mother against her father's abuse. 1767

Father drives away my
angels: they scramble like
rats before his hard

rain. He rains every-
where: in the scullery,
the attic, the bedchamber

where my mother creeps.
She calls me her keeper,
my mother who berates me and

my angels. Fog unfolds
after a day of lightning, and
Father stumbles into our night.

The house is quiet as
a burial ground; he kicks
the dog and clomps

upstairs. I lie on the landing
by their door; when the silence
breaks, I throw my body

between: his blows batter
my back. I can't find
my tongue. The house

collapses under his boot-
fall, and no one comes
to reclaim me. No angels.

 

3

THE KIDNAPPING: A NURSERY TALE
Mary's sister Eliza has a postpartum breakdown—seemingly caused by her husband's abuse, and Mary "rescues" her in a hackney coach. The baby, kept from the "runaway" Eliza, dies. 1784.

Nine weeks of frost
that Bermondsey winter, the boat
builder out of work
and Sister's belly a spreading
hedge (he'd take her
anyway—too cold for speech).
One raw night and rockabye
baby…a breaking bough—
and no one to put Sister
together again.

Oh that mis-
carriage of justice!
wind driving blind as
a sex through the doors;
the wedding ring bitten to
pieces; while home
the baby, the irate husband
hexing the expedition—
Mary in the hackney
hurling back the wrongs:
one for the brutal husband
one for their bullying brother
one for their drunken father
One for the knave down the lane
who would kill his wife
with childbirth and claim her be-

longings. The coach halts
by the rented rooms:
Mary's belly is a green apple.
Eliza's nipples weep
for her child. Records
a year hence show
the father spent
ten shillings tenpence
for coffin and shroud, the normal
rate for a Bermondsey baby
being three and tenpence.

 

4

THE CROSSING
Mary took ship to Portugal to attend her beloved friend, consumptive Fanny Blood; Fanny and infant son died during childbirth. 1785

Love has no face now.
I have lost my other
self; they open a vein
and my mind bleeds

to feet. Fanny Blood
was my looking glass,
I knew her in every nerve.
The doctor never saw
that her lungs were
coughing up her kidneys.

I had sailed for Portugal:
thirteen extravagant days
at sea among puling
companions. Myself, I was
never better: I swallowed
sea air like the whale
engulfing Jonah; my brain
punched like a bellyful
of salty men. Then found my

Fanny already in labour,
mother and child
sinking
past my keel
like a pair
of bleeding fish.

The voyage home
was a tempest. When
the British captain refused
to rescue the sinking
French, I sharpened my teeth
to expose his
injustice. My companions
followed; together
we made him gybe the ship.
I wanted those men
alive.

 

5

VAINGLORY
Mary Wollstonecraft is governess in Cork, Ireland, to the daughters of the frivolous Lady Kingsborough. 1786. The final line comes from Mary's letters, and I quote it again in my novel Midnight Fires.

I am tormented by dogs.
I drink ass's milk
but it only sours
the vitals. A fine lady
is to me a new species
of animal: she noses
her offspring into my lap
to make room for the dogs.
They share her bed,
I daresay her breast.
She puts the girls out
to market, jiggedy jig.
And goes on breeding:
the business of marriage.

My mind preys on my body
the way my mistress
shadows my mind. She
would puncture my spirit
with her dull teeth.
If I accept her
daughters' affections, I
have no designs
on the dogs. 'I diffuse
feeling,' says she,
'like a scattering
of incense': it makes her
sneeze. Today I vow
nothing she commands
for her Franco-maniac visitor
will bring me down
from my book. My French
sticks in my throat.

(Published in Wisconsin Review)

 

6

THE BOOKSELLER HAS A MOMENT OF MANIC
Dismissed by the Kingsboroughs, Mary lands on the doorstep of publisher-bookseller, Joseph Johnson with her first novel, "Mary: A Fiction." London, 1788

    Certain physical considerations have kept me from women, but there she was on my
doorstep, a feral cat starved for the flesh of intelligent discourse. What manner of woman
was this? No prospects, no sign of that surrender to man or God that hangs on such a condition? Genius maybe, but
The Education of Daughters a flawed work, copies gathering dust in my warehouse—
and she dares to chide "Little Johnson" for favoring price over appearance.
    Now I don't believe in witchery, but when she rushed in with her shabby beaver hat
and a sheaf of new script (fiction!) to break on my chest like a wave of raw light, I gave
up my shore. (It seems these moments come to certain asthmatics). Tonight, I assured her,
she would sleep in the wings of St. Paul's.
    But first, she insisted, we would dine, she needed to eat. Then talk. And talk!
    A small man makes a good listener.

 

7

FOSTER CHILD
After publication of A Vindication of the Rights of Woman, Mary takes in a mischievous orphan. London, 1792.

Though Annie seems
a child of animal
spirits and quick
feelings, I fear
she will never
be the kind
of child I could
love—though
I long to… I
should be mistaken
if she have any
sense of honor
when she grows
up. I remind
and remind her,
holding her gaze,
and when she looks
back with those
chocolate eyes, I melt…
But then when I
go to get
sweetening
for my tea I
find that a mouse
has preceded me.
A fine child
may be,
to those who don't
keep costly sugar
in the scullery.

Pray don't make me
send her
away.

 

8

THE BRAIN LECTURES THE BODY
Mary is infatuated with the brilliant, narcissistic—and married—artist Henry Fuseli—platonically, she tells herself. London, 1792.

The thought of
an attachment—platonic,
of course—consumes
my mind. Begun
in false refinement
like gold ribbons
run through unwashed hair,
it can end
in bedlam.
                      If
there are bars
to such a union,
I say: do not un-
do them—and risk your
reputation. A heart
at large must never
enter the aviary,
no, it will only covet
the kite.
                  Yet
Mr Fuseli has painted
an oil of Paradise
Lost— he has invited me
over tonight
to see it.
                I
simmer
a slow broth.

 

9

DIALOGUE à TROIS
Mary offers to move into the Fuseli household—and meets resistance from the wife. 1792

Mary:
"My proposal
arises from my esteem
for your husband.
I cannot live
without seeing him
daily—to offer…
variety. I seek
only to unite my
self to his
mind. Modesty, to me,
is sham."

Sophia:
"The effrontery of
that squinting woman!
She would feed
on his genius like
a rat on cheese
and at his very pallet!
I see to it, yes, that
he varies his diet:
raw pork to stimulate
the imagination.
What more can she
possibly do? Why, he
mocks her behind her
back, this woman! I
shut the door on
her cheek."

Henry:
"No matter, meine liebe.
She will leave before
long for Paris—
this rebel,
this assertrix of female
rights. Tonight
I dine with friends. Do not
wait up for me."

 

10

MARY PREPARES TO LOSE HER HEAD
Inspired by the principles of the French Revolution (Liberté! Egalité! Fraternité!) Mary sets off for revolutionary Paris—alone. December, 1792

Blind to the Rue Meslée
the street door opens only
to the masque of the courtyard.
There the wet nurse
thrusts her breasts
into the mouths of the rich;
already her milk
tastes of blood. While
inside the house Mary floats
through an isolation
of servants I might take
a husband for the time
being… The doors unfold
and fold in her wake,
she coughs up fucus.

Out in the starved street,
on his way to certain
death, Louis XVI dangles,
like a stringed puppet
in the prison
of the passing coach.

She squints up from
her book and ahhhhhhh
the bloodshot eyes,
the bleeding knuckles
beat on the window glass…
her mind is a drumroll.

I cannot put out the candle.
If only I had kept the cat with me….

 

11

THE SHOOT
Mary meets Gilbert Imlay, dashing American adventurer-novelist. To her, he is the grand passion she has always longed for. To him? See below. Paris, 1793

Mary, who won't suffer fools,
Who cries her canon to the world,
Is caught
Now in my gunsight:
A succulent goose on the wing.
If I bring her down
She will thank me.

 

12

NIGHTSONG TO A NOBLE SAVAGE
With France and England at war, it isn't safe for an Englishwoman to be in Paris during the Great Terror. So Mary moves to a cottage in Neuilly-sur-Seine; she and Imlay meet at the city gates. Heads may roll in Paris, but Mary is passionately in love. June, 1793.

Before bed I will
obey an impulse
of the heart
to sing like
a nightingale in flight
of the day
we will begin
to live together.
I will try to subdue
my delight
with your presence—
I see that it some-
times makes you
frown. I will be good!
Tomorrow we will see
if we have time
to keep our pulses
quick.

Shall we meet at the barrier?
I'll wear my tri-colour
cockade so they won't
take me away to prison.
I'll bring a basket of grapes.

 

13

HOW TO COOK A PARTRIDGE
Imlay manipulates a vulnerable Mary. Neuilly-sur-Seine, Summer, 1793

Mary grows tender
As a partridge braised
In butter. Braising is the way
To deal with older birds:
Rub the cavities with cut lemon,
Crush in juniper berries,
Bring the fat to a boil.
Arrange in a thick nest of cabbage.

Then slice into five pieces.

 

14

UNE ET INDIVISIBLE
Mary now lives with Imlay on the left bank in Faubourg St. Germain, though he is often away on business. Charlotte Corday, who stabbed Marat in his bath, was guillotined in July; 21 Girondin leaders guillotined; feminist Olympe de Gouges, Manon Roland, Thomas Paine in prison and visited by Mary who apparently has American status through Imlay. Paris: October 1793

I sleep tonight in the room
where you first pressed
me on the fever
of your breast: Penelope
cannot undo all the threads!
It is hot; dove wings
beat on my brain; blood
pumps through my sewers.
I've more faith
in your love when
you're gone—than here.
We are always separating.

We embrace and
crack! crack! You're off
with your money-sucking face.

Must we speak of alum or soap?

The death of Brissot dropped
me to the floor. Corday trysts
with the headsman;
Olympe de Gouges was stoned
and has lost her way—
I scratch in the straw of her
prison. I pour cold water
over her burning feet.
My fingers itch.
Tonight I make love
to the ghost of poor Mirabeau.

For God's sake write to me!

 

15

MARY CONSULTS AN ORACLE
Mary is pregnant and alone in Paris; Imlay in Le Havre on his sometimes illegal shipping business. Paris: November, 1793

Sir! I have read your kind
letter to bits. My mind spins
while my fingers nest
in my lap: they start
with the twitchings
of a creature
that swims in the spring
of our love.
How long
must you be at business?

My life is a labour
of patience, my bowels
a stone too still
to push. They call me
the raven woman
and I let them.
I am alone
with the animal.
Does it sleep as I sleep?
Dream of its getting?
I am the passport
of a thousand questions.
Let down your barrier!
I am coming
to Le Havre. Till then
all thought is
stopped.

 

16

THE KETTLE THREATENS
Imlay and his colleague, Joel Barlow, are trying to raise a force to "capture" Louisiana for the French. He attempts to evade the British blockade to import grain and soap—and export confiscated Bourbon silver in return. Le Havre, November, 1793

Her letter burns a hole in my intentions.
It consumes the business
At hand. What? Must I boil
In the hearthside pot—succor
A plump goose with my gut?

And yet
I can't bring myself
To kill it.

The business of Louisiana is combustible, it calls
For a steady caper—she can't come now!

But there are moments
I kindle
In her smoke.

 

17

PALIMPSEST
Imlay allows Mary to come to Le Havre, where he finds lodging for them. Although he is mostly "away," she is content with her pregnancy, January, 1794.

I admit no impediment
to reaching Havre
to bid you smile

us to sleep.
You have twisted
more artfully

round my bark
than I dreamt! Nay,
you are the elm

that bolsters
these twinning
tendrils

(strange tongue
from a defender
of free hold)

But if I, as you tease,
am a parasite,
consider

what climbs inside me!

 

18

BREASTING THE FLOOD
With the help of a French midwife, Mary gives birth to a healthy girl, Fanny Imlay—although they are not legally wed. She relishes breast feeding, which she had recommended to all women in her Vindication of the Rights of Woman. Back in Paris, some 300 heads roll each day at Robespierre's guillotine. May, 1794

When my cat purrs
the fresh stream rushes

under the frail bridge,
the earth rumbles

in the rub of wind,
the green twigs snap.

The fire booms
and there collapsed

at her bellows:
five suckling kittens.

I, too, am a pulley:
your mouth pumps

at my swollen hearth,
my bowels drown

in a drumroll;
flames lap my nipples.

Together we suck up
the cream of the spilling

wave, we squeeze
out the root,

we pour into fire.

(Published in POETS ON)

 

19

WEANING
Mary returns to Paris with baby Fanny, whom she attempts to wean. Imlay is still consumed with business—and more; in London he is secretly living with an actress. Robespierre is finally overthrown in July, '94, but for Mary "life is but a labor of patience." September, 1795

To Gilbert Imlay:

I deprive myself tonight,
Sir, of my sole pleasure:
our child's cries cramp
my kidneys, I squeeze
my grief into a sack
I would heave over
my shoulder. I find you
embruted by trade, your heart,
viscera. Call this
a cranky letter, say
that I wife you (if you
say anything at all!)

Or do you wean me,
too, like a cat,
away from the hearth?
Does the milk curdle
in your gutters?
Tell me the truth!

In the painting you brought
of old Versailles, the train
of the Louis, like BanquoÕs
seed, freezes on the old
canvas. The stagnant air
of my chamber clogs
my breath, the nipple
shrinks from its task,

mind dies into
disuse.

 

20

MARY HOLES UP WITH JOAN
To divest himself of Mary and young Fanny while he coddles his new mistress, Imlay sends Mary alone by ship to Scandanavia to recoup his money from a swindling seaman. At sea, 1795

Prisoner of the wind,
like Joan, I would lay
siege to Orleans—

but the pennon dies
on the lance.
The ship rocks

in the sticky
waters like the ram-
shackle swing

in Father's yard
that even the wind
would not bring

to the apple tree;
it shrinks
from the world's

busyness. I
want nothing
if not answers

to my quest-
ions! but
the voices

are still
in my ear-
drums, my tempest

is all eye.
For better—
or words

I wait for wind.

 

21

MARY KEELS OVER ON THE ROCKS
Mary arrives in Scandinavia with young Fanny. Here she takes notes for her celebrated Letters Written during a Short Residence in Sweden, Norway and Denmark. 1795

The coast of Sweden
is an uprush of bleak rocks
into a cleft sky
and yet

our boat bowls forward
as if spell-bound by a lode-
stone; my palm freezes
on the oar-

lock, our child meuls
at my breast. You handle me
like a leaky vessel,
I ooze in eight

places. I'm empty as a pot
hole. Keep your money! If
there is healing to do
I'll find a way

or find a way…

The boat kicks up
on the rough bank like a dog
let off a rope and
drops sense-

less
on the deaf
bluff.

 

22

PUTNEY BRIDGE
Deserted by Imlay and spurned by English society for her unwed status and illegitimate child, Mary attempts suicide a second time (the first by a laudanum overdose). London, 1795

The wound opens between her legs
and the world looks.
He tickles his mistress.
A living death, she thinks, is
insufficient. She pledges
her ghost.

She moves quickly to dupe
the brain, the coins clink
in her pocket like soldiers
tossing for pieces of her
skin. The rain is her side-
kick, it soaks her voices.
The water is thick as oil
under the oar; to fall
from the boat too swift
a descent: she's bound
for Putney Bridge.

She rocks bay to bay
in the wet dark
until her dress rushes
with rain; scrambles
the wooden bars
like a squirrel bent
on its hole in thunder;
the jump
stuns
but the cloak is a buoy
in the kicky waters;
the coins break
through the pocket threads:

death
turns
a cold back.

 

23

PATIENCE
Pregnant by philosopher-humanist William Godwin, who genuinely loves her, Mary marries him, but dies from septicemia (blood poisoning after the placenta was removed in pieces) eleven days after childbirth: London, 1797

1782 remembered in 1797

A little patience and all will be
over. Your mother's words
stop the throat. But
past, Mum, is past,
What else do you say
when Mother's tongue is
as black as the blows
you suffered staving
off the father and then
the scrape of heel
as Mother ran to embrace
the brother? Still

you cling to that final
sentence as if it comes from
a chorus of keening
women, ignorant of the fighter
for the Rights of Woman
soon to be fished
out of the river
like any hooked pike,
got pregnant again—
and then those lusty
puppies stuck like leeches
on the nipples: Patience—
and life will soon be over?

Mary washes down
the body, she
empties the slops, she
scours the floor.
The brothers suck
on their rum.

 

24

CROSSING OVER
The child is Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin, who ultimately weds Percy Bysshe Shelley and writes Frankenstein (and other novels). Like her brilliant but conflicted mother, passion and impetuosity sometimes override her reason.

London: August 30, 1797

Like a head-
long rush of lava
out of the earth's
crust she
comes! pink mouth
squalls, hair's a wet
red tangle as if
raked by lightning:
a jolt like this
into a racking
dawn could break any
connection:

          The daughter sucks on the split nipple.

London: September 10, 1797

A quick
cry in the dark
and an arm heaves up
as if it would disconnect
from the kidneys;
the heart splits
like water spilling
over rent rock.
Her harnessed flesh
shrinks to
bone. Breath
is done.

 

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