They will eventually say nothing of my poetry

He was good at it then and even now this voyager.
I had to go to pieces the afternoon delight.
Perhaps if I had been rich, a funny girl, classy and brilliant.
It would have been a different matter, significant.
Perhaps if I had not told him how much I loved him.
Perhaps he would have loved me back then even more.
Perhaps he would have married me, called me his wife to my face.
He would have been a family-man. We would have had a family.
Daddy was a spy and a proud man. Though he always wished me well.
He read all my notebooks. My outlook on man has always been primitive.
Perhaps I should have burnt my journals.

My hardcovers, and diaries in the end are not useful
And in the end, my wishes did not become prophecies.
For the most part of my life
I felt unfulfilled, deeply unsatisfied.
I thought that only the measure
Of a man with shamanic wisdom
Could change all of that insecurity.
My father was an arrogant man, a mad man.
He taught me everything I knew, educated me
But not on how to be a woman.
So I felt cheated in the end

When I lost the only man I had ever loved.
I went out of my mind. At first it felt outstanding
But the bars at the window kept me up nights.
It was so dark, so dark, but love matters I told myself
And all I could do was to get up and drink water
The hunt for sleep was always peaceful in the end.
My beautiful Shura, it was always winter for her.
We were winter guests wherever we found ourselves to be.
The two of us were trapeze artists. There was always applause.
I always had to pray that we would navigate this planet
Together with our hero Ted, Edward Hughes the poet.

It was just in his nature his philandering ways.
As I later found out. He would never marry me.
Accept Shura as his own. So I melted, turned into a tree by a river.
Shura melted, turned into an angel. Her childhood was over forever.
We both became hollow, shells, driftwood, lotus flowers growing in mud.
Turned in our grave and slept. Dream Shura I whispered in her ear.
We would never see the sun again. Three marriages behind me.
And Shura dreamed of the Cheshire cat grinning from ear to ear.
Assia Wevill’s womb is silent. Another ghost house.
Assia, daughter of a German Protestant mother and a Russian Jewish father.
Assia, Sylvia Plath’s rival, that is all they will remember of me.

Abigail George is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominated South African essayist, poet, short story writer, and novelist.

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