The Rake

Half asleep, tonight I recall the poems.
Too personal, I said then. No one should squint
at me, half smiling, knowingly, as he thumbed
those dangerous sheaves. Out there the darkness shakes
masks in the ivy—warriors that compete
with ghosts up from the pool, that pit of black
beyond the beds. A thing armed with a rake
gropes through my head. I must not look, will wake,
wake up, look round. The bookcase glass looks back—
well-made, fine woman, threads of gray, the mouth
strong, yes strong, still strong. No one got past.
And no one does. Yet, stretching out these hands
clenched in my lap, observing how my breasts
round out the silk, my crossed legs bare one thigh’s
unstockinged inches, womanhood remains
and warms me, as it always warmed me when
I started out to patronage, soft words,
those manly jibes—thought they could con a girl!
but pats on shoulders, even on the butt
were cameraderies I leamed to share
while waiting for my chance. I knew my mind:
be docile first—(the lapdog has rewards)—
drink tea, admire, be helpful, candid, shy,
but lambent with intelligence. Make laughter
unforced, jovial. No one got past.
Even he, with his millions, his flirtatious
little hints that warmed the rancid blood,
could not resist conspiracy; we shared
enthusiasms cosily until—
Gained access to the papers. Sheds new light.
Meticulous editing. No, none got past …
except, maybe, myself. … For Twenty Years
the Leading Scholar in the Field … myself. …
I snuffled through those papers till I blurred
as weariness blurs now. Impertinent fools
to doubt my stature! But no one could break
that hedge of footnotes, no one beat me to
the cache of manuscript. I knew the way:
cast doubt with kindness, condescending shrugs;
raise tolerant eyebrows; hint unsafe opinions;
talk of precedents—grow invulnerable
through discipline and art. If I’m alone
it’s in the bargain—one I don’t regret,
Who needs a man? Or poems? To join that gaggle
of poseuses who brag their weakness, sex,
and crass enthusiasms, girls like swine
rooting for lechery. Better to conform.
Professional. Decent tweeds. Plain skirts. A touch
of make-up only. Good shoes. Take a drink
but keep your distance. Far too personal,
I said then. … A thing armed with a rake
dragging up sentiment, those twisted shames,
those eaten sores. Damn follies for the fools
they tum us into! Those loud ivy leaves
can clatter all they wish, the faces swim
up from the pool by hordes; who gives a damn
for ghosts, for childish ghosts! My face looks back
from bookcase glass: fine woman and well-made,
good teacher, scholar, dedicated, I
know what I am and teach. I teach the truth.
The Truth has mounted me. I bear His pride.