“Ophelia’s Soliloquy” & “The Lady in Pink Speaks”

Ophelia’s Soliloquy

In response to “Ophelia,” Sir John Everett Millais (1829–1896)

You were wrong, my dear Hamlet.
The question isn’t, 
“To be or not to be.”

But how to be in a world gone mad. 
Not to be is easy.
Simply climb a willow tree,
reach for what you cannot have,
and fall from grace.

Remember flowers for your hair. 
They will speak for you: daisies 
for innocence, withered violets, 
a spray of forget-me-nots, 
one red poppy.

Then land in a swollen stream, 
eager to take you away from here.
Let it flow. Let it fill you. 
And let go.

Dear boy, remember what you said?
  “Doubt thou the stars are fire. 
Doubt that the sun doth move. 
Doubt truth to be a liar, 
but never doubt I love.”

Doubt told me to climb a willow tree
and fly away. 
Now I lie here, tangled
in weeds and madness.

But something tells me 
we will meet again, my sweet prince.
Whatever is breaking you in two, 
will be your end. 

The Lady in Pink Speaks

In response to “Portrait of a Lady in Pink,” William Merritt Chase (1849–1916)

When I met Mr. Chase, I boldly told him 
I wanted to learn how to paint portraits.

He said he wanted to paint me.

Now I sit still for hours, learning
how a whisper of paint stirs a froth of tulle,
how a ruffle of cream and pink becomes a parasol,
how a stroke of white is sunlight on a satin bow.

Early tomorrow in my room, if the light is good,
I will practice with my father’s gift of oils.
Papa didn’t laugh when I said I wanted to study art.
He gave in. I am his only child.

Papa says I am like my mother, 
who keeps asking when I will agree to marry Mr. Cotton.
That is why I had to leave my parents’ home.
I knew I, too, would give in.

And now Mr. Chase tells me to turn my head,
to lift my chin, to look weary.
More ennui, he urges.

I am Marietta Benedict,
and someday I will be an artist.

My mother says Mr. Cotton will not wait forever.
Mr. Chase daubs a shadow under my chin,
says I have an amazing neck. 

Mr. Cotton has not touched my neck.
I listen as the brush strokes the canvas.
I hold my breath.