Books Read: New York City 1979 by Kathy Acker, Modern Nature by Derek Jarman, The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson, and The Unauthorised Life: Ted Hughes by Jonathan Bate
Rejections: 6
Acceptances: 1
Poems Written: 7
“Ideas are like stars: sometimes they die out, sometimes they explode. I want my exploding star.”
~ 19/10/24 ~
I am waiting for vanity to die; for justice to reign true. I have met so many narcissists in my life, and despite their black souls, they court adoration. Every single day they are told how amazing they are, and they certainly don’t deserve it. I see so many good people suffering but drowning beneath these vapid shells who pose and preen. There was a time I believed in karma, but I’m really not sure anymore.
October begins with my writing this play. I plan on it being twenty-thirty pages long (which translates to the same amount of minutes). Finding character names is always the hardest part. I go through baby-naming websites, newspaper articles, and books I have to hand. Finally, I have come up with POLKO and VIDA.
Right at the last stretch I discover it needs to be put on ice for a long while. Somehow, I find myself itching to return to poetry. The first few lines come to me one evening, while I am doing my journaling. The title follows on easily: Suicide in Red Lipstick. It stands, cornered by a block of pink highlighter (a pastel Stabilo, to be precise). Beat for the night, I let it stew. When the following day comes, I have a way in, an opening to dive into.
Watching interviews with different creatives soothes me. I fall asleep on a dull afternoon to the crooning of Kathy Acker. I read her Penguin Little, New York 1979. She writes, “The world is gray afterbirth,” and I am inclined to agree.
A.C. dies and the family drowns in grief. It was only supposed to be a visit to the hospital, but she took her last breaths so suddenly. Mum rings me to give me the news, but I can barely make out what she is saying through her cries. The next few days are up and down; going back and forth to see the grandparents.
A day after this, F dies, much to A’s sadness. Yet another death for us, totalling four or five this year. The fragility of life has never been more present than in these moments. We lost P first, then I, and now A. C. and F! I truly believe I have stepped into a cursed loop. Ever since we left Dunham (childhood home), things have been awry. Yes, plenty of good things have happened, but more bad. In one weekend—at Squirrel House—my cat died, my parents announced their divorce, and we found out my grandfather had cancer.
I write more poems and enter them into some free competitions that I am bound to lose. And when I do, I will wish for darkness, pulling denial over my head like a bean sack. But it is in my nature to compete, though I don’t see it that way. What I really want is to be appreciated for the poems I create. I grew up being largely ignored in favour of others; the same others I was expected to follow. Being Courtenay wasn’t enough for them, and now it’s not enough for me. Every time I feel ignored (and I am, but it’s kind of hard to prove), I see myself back in that classroom, dreaming of the day that everyone was going to know my name. I’m Maxine Minx minus the violence.
And sure enough, I had my own “Maxine fucking Minx” moment when I was in high school. We were hanging in McDonalds when some of the scallies turned up and threw things at us. We got into it outside with one of them asking, “Who even are you,” to which I replied, “I’m Courtenay fucking Gray, that’s who I fucking am.” When I saw her the next day in P.E. she could barely look at me. I guess I wasn’t the weakling she thought I was. And that’s the point. People underestimate me. For some reason, people get a shock when I stand up for myself. My timid demeanour is my natural state, but if you play games, I will step up to the table.
I’m in the mood to write a Sestina. I’ve put off doing it for a couple of years, but I think I’ve got the itch. I write down the rules / format in my journal, and as advised, I begin by writing the envoi. Once that is down, I get to the meat. I spend days and days on it, slowly chipping away at the form; moulding and shaping until it finds its way through.
The Ted Hughes biography is incredibly frustrating. The blame placed on Sylvia always bothers me. Why can’t he admit to what he did? He wasn’t the first man to cheat. They paint Hughes as a saint for having “put up” with Sylvia. And don’t get me wrong, I don’t doubt she may have been difficult to handle, but if both of your lovers take their lives in the same way (and blame you for it), that should tell you something. I’m listening to the biography to give myself a more rounded view of their marriage. Unlike many Plath stans, I can admit that Ted Hughes wrote some excellent poetry.
Sylvia’s madness did not exist in a bell jar. Everything she did, she did for Ted. He dragged her along to various places of isolation, knowing full well she hated it. Plath wanted to move to Paris, but such a place was Hughes’ nightmare. Their marital compromise was suppressed in reality.
I am preoccupied with my disdain for vanity. There are writers who sell their work by taking provocative photographs, and I am sick. What happened to looking outward? Does a lasagne taste less than because it has a pasta sheet out of place? These narcissists are rewarded. They speak in affected tones, giggling like schoolgirls so people will engage in their work. People are hoodwinked by their rouge; their made-up shells that are rotten on the inside. Their writing is held to a godlike standard simply because they feed into a self-obsessed society. I’m almost thirty-years old and it feels like nothing has changed. I was judged on my appearance when I was little, and we are still here! Does my being overweight make my poetry any less passionate? Any less good?
This would all be fine if these narcissists were taken off their pedestals and taken down a peg or two, but they are constantly inflated. They court attention by way of social media, calling in the troops to tell them how sexy they are, how brilliant they are, how…
I submit Sestina for a Nesting Doll to a magazine for their Plath themed issue, which they quickly accept with an honorarium of $20.
If I write and write and write and write and write, maybe I can outrun my ambition. Would it be such a bad thing to learn how to be a nobody?
The very thought…shivers…spine.
When I want to write but can’t seem to produce what I need, I write what Sylvia Plath would call “chairs”. While I had desired a table, sometimes, a chair is all you have:
Sunny Graves
Home turns to bonfire;
A high cedar,
Man’s icing sugar.
The leaves fall like birds,
Deadened awake by
Their graves of sun.
Always brightest at
First dark;
That pencil grin.
My decomposition slows.
Pooling like water
Escaping through holes.
I am unsure
of my poisons;
Which will do it?
Home turns to bonfire,
A high feeling;
Man’s mad drug.This chair is inspired by the first days of my favourite time of year. As a child I always looked forward to that sweet, smoky smell in the air. It’s the most wonderful candle-like scent; cedary and oud-heavy. The chill is setting in, the supermarkets are gearing up for the busiest season, and the Christmas adverts start creeping in. Tercets felt perfect for this poem. Autumn is the main focus, but there is a darkness lingering in the background—as per my illustration.
WARNING: This chair will never grow up to be a table.
Congrats on getting your submission accepted.
There are 4 types of narcissist, its rising as of 2008 in universities, (I also went to Uni - eventually) its that ones you can't spot from a mile away that haunt dreams. They all send people to therapy.
Really enjoyed this, Courtenay. I appreciate both of them as poets, but "Sylvia’s madness did not exist in a bell jar. Everything she did, she did for Ted" – yes!
Your own poetry is terrific. Glad your Plath sestina poem was accepted.