Andrew Kramer

hails from Cleveland and is a proud recent graduate of Ball State University’s Department of Theatre and Dance in Muncie, Indiana where he was the founder/president of Busted Space Theatre Company, Ball State’s student-run theatre company specializing in new works and non-conventional theatre performances. His play, A Map of Our Country, was a part of this year’s 35th Annual Samuel French Off-Off Broadway Short Play Festival. He was a 2010 Core Apprentice Writer at the Playwrights’ Center in Minneapolis, where he developed his play The Dog(run) Diaries. He is currently being considered to be the newest member of the X-Men.


2 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. Julia Novak
    Dec 03, 2009 @ 10:20:23

    Hi Andrew,

    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


    • andrewswriting
      Dec 04, 2009 @ 01:52:38

      Hi Julia,

      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:

      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:

      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.


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