I wrote this poem a few years back. Here it is. It’s called, of course, “A Room of One’s Own” in honor of Ms. Woolf:
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The letters were carefully placed
on the warm mantle. Rocks embedded
into concrete and cement; frozen
in time were, they were inspiring and framed
the fireplace with a heavy delicacy. She placed
her words next to the flowers she picked
this morning. Her husband had passed
by as she bent down over the garden. The world
she’d taken so much time to create
and care for and tend. To care for and tend
plants was a practice he could watch and not
have to worry about what would happen next.
He’d much prefer his wife to set her pen down
and garden. He smiled and then left,
down the path to the river. He planned to
catch dinner.

The letters were carefully placed
next to the glass vase passed down
from mothers before. The flowers
accented the envelopes with colors and intentions left
by some matronly robin before taking flight
into the world, alone. It wasn’t difficult deciding
only to write two. Her words were
sufficient only for two and that’s the way
she’d imagined it would be. Not wanting
to have that taste, that horrid taste linger
in her mouth, she decided not to seal the envelopes
and instead placed them with their backs propped
open and ready to be seen. There wasn’t much
strategy in this, only practicalities
as it always had been.

The letters were carefully placed
before she returned to her garden
for a collection of rocks. The return
was serene; for a moment she fooled
herself into thinking she would go there
only to garden.
They weren’t difficult to find, glistening,
she’d seen them before and took note
of their persistent locations.
they’d make a good home in her pockets.
she dropped only two in each. Whether or not
it was because this was sufficient or the threshold
of what her modest waistcoat could stand is still
subject to debate.

The letters were carefully placed
and now there was nothing she could do.
Instead, she passed a farmer, his worn
face and buttoned shirt served
as a reaffirmation of her decisions.
She didn’t undress and she didn’t think.
There was no catharsis or regret, the way
she would have preferred. Around her ankles
the water swelled and tickled her skin like small
iridescent fingers inviting her to join. They worked
up her legs and to her knees, grazed the white
flesh of her body until she was completely submerged
in her final swiftly moving room.
A heavy room of water.

The letters were carefully placed
when her husband returned home.
He stopped for a moment to call out her name
only to be greeted by the cold echoes
he had learned to fear. Seeing the letters,
he watched a carefully constructed house
tumble and sway in the wind. He watched
the house splinter Into shards
of memories and tradition. He opened it,
already knowing what was to be said:

Dearest,
I feel certain that I am going mad again.
I feel we can’t go through another
of those terrible times. And I shan’t recover this time.
I begin to hear voices, and I can’t concentrate.
So I am doing what seems the best thing to do.
You have given me the greatest possible happiness.
You have been in every way all that anyone could be.
I don’t think two people could have been happier
’til this terrible disease came. I can’t fight any longer.
I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me
you could work. And you will I know. You see I can’t
even write this properly. I can’t read. What I want to say is
I owe all the happiness of my life to you.
You have been entirely patient with me
and incredibly good. I want to say that — everybody knows it.
If anybody could have saved me
it would have been you. Everything has gone from me
but the certainty of your goodness. I can’t go on
spoiling your life any longer. I don’t think two people
could have been happier than we have been.

I just ran a google search for “poem about Virginia Woolf” and your blog came up, though I can’t seem to find the poem on your webpage right now –
is there anyway (anywhere) I could have a look at it?

Kind regards and greetings from Vienna
Julia Novak