The Lamb’s Pub in London. Don’t let the black sheep in your family pull the wool over your eyes! Literati! Parisianne Modert (rhymes with Cobert Repor) is new to our site, and her entry into our contest Wing Nuts is based on a writer I am unfamiliar with, but that’s why there is Wikipedia. …
The Lamb’s Pub in London. Don’t let the black sheep in your family pull the wool over your eyes!
Parisianne Modert (rhymes with Cobert Repor) is new to our site, and her entry into our contest Wing Nuts is based on a writer I am unfamiliar with, but that’s why there is Wikipedia.
Slyvia Plath, aka Mrs. Ted Hughes, was a poet married to a fellow poet, and he done her wrong. He fell in love with another poet’s wife, of which he wrote:
“The dreamer in her
Had fallen in love with me and she did not know it.
That moment the dreamer in me
Fell in love with her and I knew it,”
Parisianne commiserates with Sylvia in her story,
The Lamb under the Bell Jar
The I’ll just have to wing it time machine whisked me onto Lamb’s Conduit Street within the West End of London. The Lamb Pub of 1720 birth and forlorn Victorian draping compelled me inside.
“Top shelf vodka, glass, no ice, leave the bottle.”
Sylvia Plath’s eyes turned up to mine, sad, blank, troubled, beautiful.
“Mrs. Hughes, may I…”
“Novelist, barren without agenda.”
“I despise drinking alone. Sit. You are?”
“I hate this day, Madame.”
“You met your husband six years ago.”
“I hate hollow anniversaries.”
“Always. Your story?”
“I’m from 2038.”
“Why visit me? Dickens’s ghost sits over there.”
“Your poems and life fascinate me.”
“My family lives in Devon.”
“Never disturb a writer and mother at work.”
“Read my work?”
“All of it. Why drink here?”
“Ted is fucking another poet’s woman.”
“You will write about it.”
“Your memoirs. You’re writing ‘The Bell Jar’ now.”
“I believe you Parisianne. My husband loves Assia instead of me. She captured him like prey to be toyed with. Pretty woman without a soul draw pleasure from cruelty. Men, even poets are fools.”
“In your future…”
“Don’t you dare tell me about my suffering, an ink blot spreading until drying to rot in death.”
“No madam! Here is the graveyard of a sad woman nearing a spring without flowers blooming. Her heart ripped from its’ chest like a baby from my womb.”
We drank in silence.
(It didn’t end well…)
So please welcome our new-bee with your comments, invite others to both comment and enter the contest, which closes June 10th.