"Ophelia's Technicolor G-String: An Urban Mythology" by Susan B. Anthony Somers-Willett

You'll have to forgive me for moving abruptly from Auden to something much more contemporary, but I've been dying to post this poem. Conveniently it fits in with my mythology theme for the week. But here's something to think about- while very different, in both the Auden poem and this poem (and in most all poems alluding to a myth), the poet counts on and depends highly on a reader's outside knowledge that she/he already has. This collaborative effort enables the poet to manipulate a familiar story or myth because the framework and assumpitons are already there. These myth poems are fun because they force you to think about your role as a reader.

A few questions to get started- How does your previous ideas of Ophelia inform your reading of the poem? What if it wasn't Ophelia? Would the idea of three inch heels and a technicolor g-string then be as striking? If you don't have a clue who she is, who Hamlet is, then what is lost? Okay. That's enough questions for now...

Ophelia's Technicolor G-String: An Urban Mythology
by Susan B. Anthony Somers-Willett

The air tonight is thick as curry;
like every night this summer I could cut it
with my wine glass, spray it with mace.
Over and over it would heal together
like a wound, follow my click and pace of heels
down Conti Street, St. Ann, Bourbon.

Oh Hamlet, if you could see me now
as I pump and swagger across that stage, cape dripping to the floor,
me in three-inch heels and a technicolor G-string—
you would not wish me in a convent.
They've made me a queen here, married me off
to a quarter bag and a pint of gin.

The old men tend bark and splatter, rabid
at each table. I think they stay up all night
just to spite the moon. They bring their diseased
mouths to the French Market in the morning,
sell Creole tomatoes to tourists who don't know
what they are. Each bald head shines plump and red.

It seems like so long ago that I modeled
for those legs outside of Big Daddy's—
the ones over the door that swing in, out, in, out—
the sculptor made me painted as Mardi Gras.
I thought you might recognize them if you ever passed
with the boys, parading from Abbey to Tavern,
or think them royal feet in need of slippers.

Someday I expect to find you here,
sitting at the table between the first and second rows,
fingering bones or something worse.
And in the end you will throw me a columbine,
light me a Marlboro and take me to a 24-7 where
jukebox light quivers, makes us as thin as ghosts.

But for now, I will dance for the fat man
who sits in your place and sweats his love for me at 3 a.m.,
because only he knows I am Horatio in drag.

Found at: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=179687