PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

[after Elizabeth Walter's short story, "The Spider,"

and the Night Gallery episode based upon it;

and Ezra Pound's poem, "Commission"]

"Let be be finale of seem."

---Wallace Stevens,

"The Emperor Of Ice Cream"

Go, my poem.

Go to a particular home---

at the edge of the struggling village.

Go; and go only when you know

Lady Jacomyntje, beautiful, desirable,

is not there, The man who steals her from her life---

and flauntingly steals her life from her---

that is, the man who abuses her relentessly---

the man who cannot love her as she deserved to be loved---

must be found alone.

She does not love him

He knows that and cannot restrain his rage.

He knows she has heard other words that worship her;

he knows she has enjoyed other kisses---caresses---that please her more.

Go. my poem, in form arachnid:

take from these lines eight powerful, articulated legs;

take from these images eight blazing eyes, with single focus;

take from so many shed tears for her the white, sweet-scented fluid

you will spin into inescapable silk

(so many tears shed in hatred

of that violent man, that marked predator---).

Go tol seek out that man:

the man who prevents the love she could have;

the man who obstructs the love she has deserved.

Go, immediately, Poem, be on your way.

Go in the size of a thumbnail, at first.

Make entry underneath a door,

or through some unnoticed hole in the screen.

Scamper to one side of a couch or chair

to observe him carefully. Estimate his stature.

Then climb to the ceiling to see him belittled.

When your surveillance is complete,

dangle down on a single strand

of the silk you have woven inimitably.

Attract his attention. Disturb him. Disturbed,

already, he will need to hit you hard

because he bears the predatory marks.

(And what if Lady Jacomyntje, amenable and reasonable,

should return unexpectedly?

You will recognize her: perhaps a tank top,

bare midriff, faded, proably frayed, jeans;

white socks, most probably sidewalk-grimed

or grass-stained---she loves the softness of lawns---

and will notice, immediately, with your

occular octave, the conspicuous absence of her shoes.

You will bow: bow low, bow humbly.

Fold your articulated legs. 

Lower your malevolent eyes.

Retract, temporarily, your extended chelicerae

that must not release their venom in her presence.

Bow to offer her your arachnid obeisance;

bow as the bearer of an ardent, implied,

unspoken supplication.

Bow in your smallness, and the smallness

of the hope she has long since lost.

In the privilege of her presence, you will remain

still, passive, pausing from (but not forgetful of)

these directives for your purpose, Poem.

Until she turns from you, be careful to maintain

the attitude of supplication in her presence,

even in your present form, arachnid.

If she is not there,

or does not happen to return, Poem, proceed.

Attack the abuser of her beauty, challenge his

bipolarities. He will follow your lead, so lead

him in  labyrinthine dance.

His need to dominate will compel him.

His need to injure will propel him.

Scamper here and there, in a seemingly

random pattern---straight lines to curves

and back to straight lines again. Think of

the way Lady Jacomynte, adorable, undeniable,

has been forced to flee him, with no safe place found.

Draw him in. He will mistake strategy for instinct.

Interpose yourself between him and the door.

Perhaps the radio will begin to play---

something from the mid-seventies would be

entirely appropriate;

perhaps Lady Jacomyntje's favorite song---

or the second movement of Chopin's Second Piano Concerto.

As the music commences, begin, leisurely,

your sudden, accelerated growth---

in front of his unbelieving eyes,

his unbelieving, but darting, fearful eyes:

rise to your prodigious height and girth,

such that the ceiling joists begin to groan,

and a bit of plaster falls from the ceiling

(an apt metaphor as his diseased mind

begins its final snap into collapse).

Rear up on four hindlegs, the front four eagerly reaching.

Let the breath in your book lungs flow smoothly,

as one intent upon a job well done;

while he, having soiled himself profusely,

gasps and hitches, as if being strangled by panic.

Seize him roughly, but bring him slowly

to your extended, unwavering fangs

dripping with the venom of my hatred---

hatred of what he has done, and does, to her

(has done, and does, with clenched fist or swift backhand.)

Feel the jerk of his feet dancing

for lack of the floor's comforting support, like a lynched man.

Sink your hard fangs into his soft, throbbing throat,

where the vein is that bears the pulse;

the pulse that proves, at least, he has a heart organ.

Offer no sympathetic feeling, no remorse, no hesitation---

nothing of this from a poem with instincts arachnid.

Paralyze him with your venom; but---

do not release enough to exterminate;

not yet, that would be too quick, too soon.

Let this be like the foreplay he denies her;

you would not want the rapist to feel raped.

Bind his stiffening body and limbs.

Be thorough in the layers and intricacies

of your weaving. Bind him as perfectly

as if he had been brought to the House of Death

across the Nile from ancient Thebes.

Let no part of him show through.

(Take all of the time you need; no hurry required:

this will extend his mental agony

as the strings tremble, in unison,

according to Chopin's delicate orchestration.)

Be certain his nose and mouth are completely covered

Enclose, last of all, his wild, distended eyes;

but first take a moment to stare into his two, 

with your own eight, blazing in the fury

of indescribable hatred and loathing;

hatred and loathing for which no words

can be entirely adequate, not even

in a poem, its form---arachnid.

Then cast that suffocating, twitching sack of silk aside.

Retching, flush the very taste of him

out of your fangs with a shudder.

As the poignant main theme is now reprised,

become smaller, tiny, compact as you once were---

no threat, no unheimlich behemoth of size.

Your dimension and power and eagerness

must be released and diminished,

along with those octaves of legs and eyes,

as the piano and bassoon meet

at the modulation from the the subdominant

to the dominant.

Your work, Poem, is all wrapped up and finished.

Be, once more, lines of words on this screen,

the witness of what you accomplished

in rage, the rage of a poem in form arachnid.

Starward