Meditation on Red

"I feel I've been here for . . . centuries. Even this winter
dates from the dark ages."

         - Jean Rhys, letter from Cheriton Fitzpaine, Devon


1


You, voyager
in the dark
landlocked
at Land Boat Bungalow no. 6
never saw this
green
wide
as the sea
green
limitless
as the rain
that greeted your arrival
at Cheriton Fitzpaine.

You (destiny:
storm-tossed)
never saw
the rolling downs
patchworked
in emerald, peridot
mint, celadon
never saw
sheep
tossed here and there
like foam
for decoration
on this green
quilt
of Devon.

Arrival
at Land Boat Bungalows
at flood time
never rid you of
the fear of being
the fear of being left
the fear of being left
  high and dry

So at no. 6
there was
perpetual flooding
so much drink
flowing
so much tears
so much
on the edge of
but never quite
under
that quilted
green
comforter
wishing for
blue skies
wanting
but never quite
believing
your craft
to be
worthy.

Such
disappointing
harbour
(again).

"It is very cold", you write
"It gets dark early.
One meets dark figures . . .
frost and ice are everywhere".

You still had
this burning
desire
to set sail
even though
(now and always)
and despite
what long ago
the fortune teller
said -
"I see something great
in your hand, something noble" -
you were
rudderless.

Marooned
in the grey
you decided
to garden.

Since
they called you
witch
you would
conjure up
bright
flowers
spelling
each other
all year.

In spring
(you wrote)
you planted seeds.
"I wanted heaps of poppies . . .

Not one came up."

Instead
(you wrote)
there was sometimes
"blue murder
in my wicked heart"

and a red dress
in your closet
a "Christmas cracker dress"
- the whole village knew and whispered
waiting for another explosion

(like that
which long ago
came
from the
attic).

But you
in your housecoat
frayed
round the edges
like you
red
like your rages
(soothed
with a box
of pills, red
what else?)
found
there were
occasional
red-letter days:
a dream of red
and gilt
a dream of
getting your face
lifted
buying
a bright red wig
to shock
and a purple dress
with pearls
to hoist
your spirits
(when you voyaged
out).

Meantime each day
you made up
your old face
carefully
for the village
children
making faces
at you
who knew
how to spell

little knowing
in that grey mist
hanging over
Cheriton Fitzpaine
how cunningly
you masked
your pain
how carefully
you honed
your craft
how tightly
you held
your pen
how brilliantly
you planned
to write
(though they
no doubt
heard it
as "ride")
across that
Wide Sargasso.


2

Now in the time
of that incredible green
again
in spring
in rain
I come
to the churchyard
at Cheriton Fitzpaine
Devon
knowing
you're there
Lady
sleeping it off
under that dark
grey
stone
though it says
in a categorical
tone:

HERE LIE BURIED THE ASHES
OF MY BELOVED MOTHER
JEAN RHYS, C.B.E., NOVELIST
(ELLA GWENDOLEN HAMER)
BORN
DOMINICA AUGUST 24TH 1890
DIED
EXETER MAY 14TH 1979

"GOOD MORNING MIDNIGHT".

I've come to
wake you
with spring flowers
(the ones
you had no
luck with
growing)
- snowdrops
daffodils
narcissus

knowing
you would prefer
a blanket
of red
- flame of the forest
hibiscus
heliconia
poinsettia
firecracker
bougainvillea -

for of
Mr Rochester's
first wife
you said:

"she is cold
- and fire
is the only warmth
she knows
in England."

I apologize.

Right now
I'm as divided
as you were
by that sea.

But I'll
be able to
find my way
home again

for that craft
you launched
is so seaworthy
tighter
than you'd ever been

dark voyagers
like me
can feel free
to sail.

That fire
you lit
our beacon
to safe harbour
in the islands.

I'd like to take
with me
a picture

and though
you were never one
for photographs
or symmetry
(except
in fiction)
it's to be taken
by the woman
who typed
your last
book.

And though
I know you hate
to be disturbed
just
when you've finally
settled
down
I beg you
to tear yourself
away
from that grey stone
in the churchyard
at Cheriton Fitzpaine
for just one moment
and -

Look,
Miss Rhys:

No rain!

- and see
Mary Stephenson
standing there
at her ease
waiting
to say
to us both:

"Smile please."


'Meditation on Red' (Copyright ©1994 Olive Senior) is from Gardening in The Tropics by Olive Senior published by McClelland and Stewart, Toronto, Canada and Bloodaxe Books, United Kingdom. Used with the author's permission. Reproduction in any form in whole or in part without permission from the author is strictly prohibited. Requests for permission to copy should be addressed to accesscopyright.ca the Canadian copyright agency.