Interview with Pan
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IsPFDzAGb4A&feature=fvsr
“at midnight, when the moon
makes blue lizard scales of
roof shingles”—Sylvia Plath,
Dialogue Over an Ouija Board
Pan is back—telling all as usual
Even tho Sylvia—and Ted are gone
Their adolescent—successes as poets
One dead—the other powerless to be born
Leaving me—alone with the board
Umbilically disconnected—from both
New-not-yet-born—world of writing
A vision of time—a bridge between worlds
A dead world—and a newborn one
What an odd couple—Sylvia & Ted
First they asked me—about horse-races
I picked all the winners—but got bored
Now both gone—nasty, catty, capricious
Both of them quite—malicious misanthropes
Praising each other—for being superior
When actually both—just cruel & calculating
Ambitious, vulgar, vain—full of vanity
My cup of tea—just right for possession
Pardon me if I indulge—myself, my dears
But irony is the spice of life—and death
Professionally & publicly—I’m a born liar
I’m a crazy perfectionist—tooth & nail
Writing is a gap—I fill it, go beyond
No mail—just me killing some time
The last time—I saw the “real” world
Madame Blavatsky—read my palms
And Madame Sosostris—did my cards
Ted & Sylvia—husband & wife
Not exactly—Ladies’ Home Journal
But, well—beggars can’t be choosey
Both of them—exploiters & exploited
Promiscuous—human-being users
Selling their souls—to Faber & Faber
Vulgar wastrels—of the Waste Land
Both appealed—to my postwar talents
Dark, chill, frog-faced—cruel visage
What does one expect—from death?
Ouija spirits—a speaking planchette?
Lies & abuse—all of Europe gone bad?
No more Weimar—brave cabaret?
No more blind—unquestioning faith?
Can there be love—after Auschwitz?
And so, my dears—these 2 innocents
Bleeding badly—and not knowing it
Midnight at the movies—a horror flick
What did they expect—angels & harps?
Bright futures—faculty tea & wives?
Oxford tenure instead of—diabolical Tarot?
Ted Hughes—vain, liar, a lady’s man
Easy to guess—what next book he’d write
His navel? His penis? His big fat smile?
Sylvia Plath—Hammer Films starlette
Murder she wrote—Murder most foul
She heard the panther—up the staircase
Closed the door—and locked it
Ran for her life—hid in Yeats’ kitchen
But they stuffed her—in the oven anyway
Since then—Ted’s been acting guilty
Sliming, crawling—a Mytholmroyd thug
Worried about—Scotland Yard
That’s why I’m back—Big Sleep boy
I’m Pan (Johnny Panic)—private dick
How about a cup of coffee—let’s talk
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IsPFDzAGb4A&feature=fvsr
“at midnight, when the moon
makes blue lizard scales of
roof shingles”—Sylvia Plath,
Dialogue Over an Ouija Board
Pan is back—telling all as usual
Even tho Sylvia—and Ted are gone
Their adolescent—successes as poets
One dead—the other powerless to be born
Leaving me—alone with the board
Umbilically disconnected—from both
New-not-yet-born—world of writing
A vision of time—a bridge between worlds
A dead world—and a newborn one
What an odd couple—Sylvia & Ted
First they asked me—about horse-races
I picked all the winners—but got bored
Now both gone—nasty, catty, capricious
Both of them quite—malicious misanthropes
Praising each other—for being superior
When actually both—just cruel & calculating
Ambitious, vulgar, vain—full of vanity
My cup of tea—just right for possession
Pardon me if I indulge—myself, my dears
But irony is the spice of life—and death
Professionally & publicly—I’m a born liar
I’m a crazy perfectionist—tooth & nail
Writing is a gap—I fill it, go beyond
No mail—just me killing some time
The last time—I saw the “real” world
Madame Blavatsky—read my palms
And Madame Sosostris—did my cards
Ted & Sylvia—husband & wife
Not exactly—Ladies’ Home Journal
But, well—beggars can’t be choosey
Both of them—exploiters & exploited
Promiscuous—human-being users
Selling their souls—to Faber & Faber
Vulgar wastrels—of the Waste Land
Both appealed—to my postwar talents
Dark, chill, frog-faced—cruel visage
What does one expect—from death?
Ouija spirits—a speaking planchette?
Lies & abuse—all of Europe gone bad?
No more Weimar—brave cabaret?
No more blind—unquestioning faith?
Can there be love—after Auschwitz?
And so, my dears—these 2 innocents
Bleeding badly—and not knowing it
Midnight at the movies—a horror flick
What did they expect—angels & harps?
Bright futures—faculty tea & wives?
Oxford tenure instead of—diabolical Tarot?
Ted Hughes—vain, liar, a lady’s man
Easy to guess—what next book he’d write
His navel? His penis? His big fat smile?
Sylvia Plath—Hammer Films starlette
Murder she wrote—Murder most foul
She heard the panther—up the staircase
Closed the door—and locked it
Ran for her life—hid in Yeats’ kitchen
But they stuffed her—in the oven anyway
Since then—Ted’s been acting guilty
Sliming, crawling—a Mytholmroyd thug
Worried about—Scotland Yard
That’s why I’m back—Big Sleep boy
I’m Pan (Johnny Panic)—private dick
How about a cup of coffee—let’s talk
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