poem
Volume 35, Number 3

Dawn Powell (1896–1965)

She lived to write
and did just that
all her life.

Her evil stepmother
tossed out her notebooks
she ran away at 12
to live with an aunt
who encouraged her
to keep writing
—and she did
even on her deathbed.

An unconventional life
a cheating spouse
an impaired child
financial woes
health problems
alcoholism
her diaries full
of booze,
men, missteps:
Got drunk
and amorous with…
Much gin…
I got very tight
and fell downstairs.

No rest, just a change
of troubles
she said
and carried on
her rollercoaster life
writing dark, funny
social satire, sharp
critically acclaimed
unpopular books
her writing "too harsh"
for a woman
Gore Vidal said:
Wit deployed
by a woman
is a brutal assault
upon nature—
that is, man.

She worked odd jobs
to make ends meet
drank, drank and
by the time she died
her work unavailable
her books out of print
’til decades later
Vidal’s article
revealed her as
Hemingway's favorite
female writer
instantly creating
a new market for her
sixteen novels
hundred stories
multiple plays
finally she was
financially
successful
post mortem.

What is it like
to get up in the morning
and sit down on your fifth
or sixth or seventh novel
all the ones before
underappreciated
and undersold?

She was buried
a pauper
on Hart Island
in an unmarked grave.


—Virginia Aronson