landscape the lawn
so thick the sun cannot penetrate them.
We enjoy watching the fireflies
pattern the night sky
like little explosions
of electricity.
I receive a copy of Sir Walter Scott’s
kind review of Frankenstein.
He praises the book
but believes Shelley to be the author.
This somewhat disturbs me,
a tiny splinter under my skin.
So I send him a letter of appreciation
and I inform him
that it was not my husband’s,
but my juvenile effort.
I immerse myself
in reading and studying
English and Italian
poetry and history here.
Shelley struggles a bit,
restless as one confined
to bed. He wanders
the woods and pools, looking for escape.
He cannot find inspiration
to compose anything original here,
but instead beautifully translates Plato’s Symposium.
We receive word from Peacock
that Shelley’s name has been
linked to Leigh Hunt’s in an unflattering
review of Hunt’s book Foliage.
Shelley becomes desolate
as driftwood
and misses his friends.
He and Claire grow ever close,
and there is little I can do
to halt it.
Now that Allegra is away
all of Claire’s attention
focuses entirely upon my Shelley.
It is as though
her telescopic eyes
see nothing but him.
THIEF
Summer 1818
If Claire falls into
the ocean and calls
for my rescue,
I dive into the cold
and pull her to shore.
And yet my stepsister
sees nothing wrong
with stealing from me
the lifeboat
that keeps me adrift,
my Shelley’s time
and affection.
She acts as if
I cry no tears,
feel no loss.
When she sees
my wet handkerchief
for whom does
she believe I mourn?
ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE
Summer 1818
Shelley strokes my head
as we lie in the grass of the arbor.
“If as in the myth of Orpheus
and Eurydice you were
bit by vipers and called
to your death, I would
use all my powers of music
and poetry to get you back.”
“You would no doubt
charm the gods
with your voice.”
I clutch my love’s hand
with authority.
“The way the story
would change is that
when I retrieved you
from the underworld
I would not look behind me
to check if you were there.
I would know for certain
that you would follow me.
And thereby I should
never lose you, my dear.”
I look closely into
the soft blue of his eyes.
“You are right;
you shall not lose me.
I should likely follow
you anywhere.”
NEWS FROM BYRON
August 1818
We receive two letters
from our former nursemaid Elise
about Allegra. The most
alarming information
is that Allegra has been
moved out of Byron’s home and Elise’s care
and sent to live with the British consul,
Mr. Richard Hoppner.
Elise rumors also that Byron
intends to debauch his own
daughter when she becomes
old enough and make her
his mistress, but this cannot,
of course, be substantiated.
Claire breaks dishes
and screams vengeance
like a madwoman. She vows
to leave immediately for Venice
to reclaim her daughter.
Shelley makes her calm
and will intercede on her behalf
and visit Byron instead.
Claire of course listens
to my Shelley
as he is once again
the god in her life.
But she must accompany
him on his trip.
Claire and Shelley
depart on the seventeenth
for the Hoppners’ to assess
Allegra’s condition.
I write to the Gisbornes
to beg them come and visit
as I will be desolate here
without my Shelley
with just the servants and children.
TRAVELING TOWARD BYRON
August 1818
Shelley writes that Allegra
remains as beautiful as ever
only taller and more pale,
but in all ways fine like porcelain.
Consul Hoppner advises Shelley
not to tell Byron
that Claire stays in Venice
as Byron often expresses
his extreme terror
of meeting her again.
For seeing Claire
might send Byron
into convulsions and panic
as though Byron suffered heart pains.
Shelley alone visits Byron
at three in the afternoon
as Byron should have risen by then.
Shelley shudders and shocks
that Byron looks older and fatter
and that he is involved in all
forms of debauchery.
This explains why
Byron does not want to see
old friends or former lovers.
Still Byron and Shelley
get on famously, riding
along the beach discussing
literature and life.
Shelley lies and says
that Claire and the children
and I are all in Padua.
Byron then invites us
to stay in Este at his summer home.
Shelley desires that I bring
the children and his servant, Paolo,
to Este in an arduous manner
and make the trip in only five days.
The visiting Gisbornes see that
Clara suffers from the heat
and is not well enough to make
the journey right now.
Only one, she cuts
her teeth with the turmoil
of one growing a horn
out of her head.
Still, we do as my Shelley bids.
The day after my twenty-first birthday
we set out for Este.
Clara never ceases crying,
and she contracts dysentery.
When we arrive in Este,
she spasms and convulses
like the monster
awaking in my book.
Claire is also mysteriously
unwell, and Shelley seems
more concerned about Claire
than his daughter. He tells
me to take Clara to Claire’s
doctor’s appointment in Padua
and he returns to Venice.
We set out at half
past three in the morning,
Shelley meets us in Padua
and finally recognizes how
ill little Clara has become.
He rushes Clara and me
back to Venice and leaves
us
at an inn while he searches
out a good doctor. The baby
shakes and cries in my arms.
She boils with a temperature
hotter than the molten core of the earth.
I can do nothing to calm her
until she finally calms herself
and breathes no more.
MELANCHOLIA
Autumn 1818
Sadness a choke hold
around the throat,
everything fails,
tastes bitter.
I try to dismiss the blame
I feel well up inside of me,
but sometimes
I am a pot of anger
boiling over the rim.
Mostly I feel tired.
I have not the energy
to smile or frown or speak.
I bury my head in books
but want little to do
with company.
I sometimes even despair
staying too close to my son,
that he too might be snatched
soon from me.
DISTRACTION
Autumn 1818
Lord Byron gives me
some of his poems to transcribe.
He attempts to take
my mind off the loss
of my daughter.
Mrs. Hoppner and I
visit the library
and an art gallery and go shopping.
Shelley begins a new
poetic drama, Prometheus Unbound.
I find little distraction
in every day; even my reading
suffers attention.
I watch Claire delight
in Allegra these two months
in Este, and my heart
aches for my baby Clara
like a thousand knives
have been thrust upon me.
I cannot be intimate
with Shelley right now,
but then fear he seeks out Claire.
I do not know where
to shelter my grief.
THEN THERE ARE DAYS
Autumn 1818
A glance from Shelley
across the supper table
expresses not only concern,
but adoration—
a cherished look I remember
from our first meeting.
Claire, William, and I
collect flowers in the garden
and I witness my child’s
amazement at
simple color and fragrance.
And there is the sustenance
of my books
and my journals
and my letters to friends,
the warm candlelight
of these witching hours.
THE BABY OF NAPLES
November 1818–February 1819
We decide to travel
to Naples by way of Rome.
Claire, Shelley, William,
Elise, our nursemaid, another nanny,
and Paolo, Shelley’s manservant,
and I reach Rome on November 21.
We find the city casual
and under excavation;
still it enchants us
like a love story.
Shelley travels ahead of us
through the dangerous Appian Way
so that he can locate a house
for us in Naples on the Riviera di Chiaia,
the most expensive street of villas
in all of Europe.
We manage a frightful crossing,
but arrive in Naples safely.
I fill with excitement
for Naples is the home of Virgil,
and the birthplace of Latin literature.
We luxuriate in Naples,
a city of Goodness
until we find out
that Paolo has been
cheating us out of money
and impregnated Elise
our nursemaid.
They get married
and are dismissed
from our service.
The drama leaves me sleepless
and angry as a tiger
with a toothache.
Then to add to the madness,
Shelley presents me
with a two-month-old child
named Elena Adelaide
whom we must register
as being born to me and him
on December 27 of last year.
I have never seen nor heard
a whimper from this baby’s mouth.
Percy brought me this baby
as a replacement
for my dear Clara Everina,
saying that Elena was a foundling
that he wanted to adopt.
But I somehow wonder
if perhaps Elena is not
really Shelley’s child
by another woman.
Either way, she cannot
replace my little girl.
We leave tomorrow for Rome,
and I insist that we leave
baby Elena behind
in the care of foster parents.
I will not replace
my child like
she is a lost garment.
I cannot easily be warmed
by a newfound fur.
SOMEONE ELSE’S BABY
February 1819
Sometimes I wonder
if Shelley would not
like to father the world.
His spirit is so generous
and all encompassing.
I have lost two little girls
of my own, the weight
of those losses heavier
than Atlas shouldering the earth.
We see many things
at eye level, Shelley and me,
but a new baby not our own
I cannot bear.
ROME
March 1819
It is difficult to capture
the exact beauty
and the rich history
of this place, Rome.
It is, as Shelley says,
“a city of palaces and temples
more glorious than those which
any other city contains, and that of
ruins more glorious than they.”
Shelley invites both Hunt and Peacock
to join us in Italy as he is like a knight
without his steed, so very lonesome
for his friends.
I am gladly pregnant
again and due in November.
I take drawing lessons
and write. I practice
my Italian at evening conversaziones
and find that Claire, Shelley, and I
whereas most other English
do not even try to speak it.
Shelley writes The Cenci
and Prometheus Unbound,
a work of tremendous effort
that may be the best thing
he has ever created.
Some days darken me still
like a blindfold knocking
out all sun. Shelley wishes
to return to Naples
to retrieve the baby Elena.
My father harrows
in money problems once again
and sends distressing letters.
I juggle my moods
by engaging in projects
and enjoying the scenery
stuffed with statues.
William and I tour
the sights of Rome by carriage.
We recline in the gardens
of the Villa Borghese
and try just to breathe.
WILLMOUSE
May–June 1819
The artist Amelia Curran
paints a beautiful portrait
of my blue-eyed, chubby,
but serious little William.
He chatters away now
in English, Italian, and French.
We delight to find
that Amelia has been living
in Rome the past couple of years.
She warns us that the Corso,
where we are living now,
is no place for a small delicate child
like Willmouse as malaria season
approaches, so we move
into rooms next to Amelia
on the Trinità dei Monti.
On the twenty-third of May
little William falls ill
with worms,
according to Dr. Bell’s diagnosis.
He suggests that we leave Rome
because the oppressive heat
could be damaging to William.
For once Shelley
is not keen on travel.
Over a week later
William feels not better;
in fact, he shakes
with a high fever
that reminds me of his sister, Clara.
I fear the worst—
like a prisoner awaiting the guillotine.
We sit at William’s bedside.
I cannot sleep.
The misery of these
hours is beyond calculation
as the hopes of my life
bind up in William.
He contracts malaria
and dies at noon on June 7.
I feel as though
my happiness ends
by the ragged edge of a blade.
I have lost three children now.
MY SELFISH ILL HUMOR
Summer 1819
I feel that I may not be fit
to live. Had I not
this baby kicking inside me,
my grief might throw
me over a cliff.
What kind of mother
sees three children die?
Father sends me a letter
expressing that if I do not quit
my selfishness and ill humor
my friends and family
will cease to love me.
So I have lost my child
of three. Does that mean
all that is beautiful
in the world is now dead,
that everything else
which has claim upon my kindness
ceases to exist? My shoulders
cave in to read his words.
SOME SOLACE
August 1819
We receive letters from
the Hunts and Hogg and Peacock
and Maria Gisborne,
all with consoling words
about my little William
and concern for me.
I cannot cheer,
but I do feel cared for,
and loved even at my lowest.
Frankenstein, I hear
through letters, despite
some less than laudatory
reviews, is still being read
and discussed in England
after it is known that
I authored it. Discussion
means that it provokes thought
and creates some controversy.
I am fueled now
by more than
just my pregnancy to carry on.
I retreat like a soldier
without weapons
to the solace of work.
I begin a new journal
on Shelley’s birthday.
I also start a new novel
that I finally decide
to title Mathilda. It centers
around a relationship