Cleaving Mytholmroyd

Mytholmroyd Man
—for Nicholas Hughes

I spent—a lot of time
Out there—in Mytholmroyd
Growing up in—sooty Mexborough

The moors—a moody place for
A moody adolescent—to grow up in
The same with Nicholas—in Alaska

Hunting fishing—the sullen sky
The scud and—smear of red blood
The rabbit traps—salmon trout

The Pennine Hills—a little road
Leading from Yorkshire—to the
Woolen towns—of Lancashire

Ancient church ruins—ghostly
Erected—in the primal landscape
Monolithic moonlit nights—alone?

But Sylvia—was different
She didn’t have—religious hang-ups
Her obsession was—pagan-esque

Sylvia was stilled—with legendary depth
She was deeper than England—deeper still
Her belly—where immense Pike stirred

Sylvia Plath—a pretty little Smith College slut
One of the Seven Sister colleges—part of
The Tri-College Consortium—of Kunts

Teaching in New England—was hard
Being surrounded by—beautiful women
They wanted poetry—naturally

Some couldn’t—keep their hands off me
Nor could I—once they got started
Sylvia got us out of—New England fast

If Sylvia had lived—thru the divorce
I’m sure she would have aged—gracefully
Like a Pike—with a sag belly and grin

Death comes—through natural cycles
The Hawk, the Crow—probably I would have
Wrung her neck—plucked and ate her

Sylvia was brutal—and ambitious
Like a weasel and crow—very intense
She always pursued her ends—seriously

She was the real thing—molded in brass
Worshipping—Big Daddy and me
Now she moves—thru outer darkness

Ariel speeded—up the process
London’s worst winter—in many years
Didn’t help things—her muse took wing

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