Anais Nin (1903-1977)

She wanted, somehow, to be taken,
And punished for her sins.
How could she ever atone to her father
For not being as he wished?
Extreme consolation was her quest.
Dark words in French and Spanish
Jungled her solitude,writing her journals
Late into the night,an endless letter
To daddy,a record of appetites.
(His pianist’s hands had once beaten
A cat to death before her eyes,
The same hands that smacked mother
Into purples of shame).
Death’s coquette,she fashioned her face
Into a Noh mask,and played with ghosts
In abominable fairy tales;
Life was weird and sad as Japanese.
More,always more of everything!-
The capricious,nervous,magnificent
Stuff of being,-she toiled at her fanaticism
For black discoveries and sensations,
Holding on to the world by the tips
Of her words,savaged into wisdom
Minute by ridiculous minute.
Prose and poetry, pleasure and hurt,
Were hers to battle with, as she sat
Before the mirror,writing,trying
To reassure herself she was real,
A body, a self,not yet utterly lost
To the small and monstrous days.
Ugly!Hideous!-that was why Papa
Had left,-because she was not beautiful
Or good.Could she not seduce her way
To invincible perfection, smooth white face
Sealed with lipstick and kohl?
And then the cool hands of the surgeon,
Forging an impeccable youth.
Costumed and disguised,the courtesan,
She strove to excel in every role,
Practising to control with her pen,
Ready for the next subtle betrayal.
Spied on from all sides by menacing eyes,
She lied for the love of illusion,
Tided by the Martian moons in the blood,
Mad to know every earthly emotion.
The dark judges would come for her,
Sentence would be passed,
Severe as the green fires of Venus.
The human being can be killed,
But not the writer;the ruthless androgyne,
Watching,not loving,writing,not living,
As if therein were some salvation.