This poem is a collage poem made from “The Yellow Wallpaper” by Charlotte Perkins Gilman.
there is nothing
so I take pains to
control myself —
— what is one to do?
Here, the most beautiful place!
our room opened onto the piazza
and had roses all over the window
and air and sunshine galore.
It makes me think of places that you read about
places where anything is possible
and time has yet to start.
I have watched when she did not know I was looking,
and come into the room
on the most innocent excuses.
she wished we would be more careful !
everything it touched;
your clean shirt, the hem of my dress.
But, turn as fast as I can,
I always see her,
hedges and walls and gates that lock
As if I couldn’t see through!
I have watched her sometimes away
off in the open country, as fast
as a cloud shadow in a high wind.
Janie wanted to sleep with me —
but I told her I should
I shall neglect
But as soon as it was moon-
light and she began to sigh
and shake I got up and ran
I pulled and she shook, I shook and
she pulled, and before morning we had
committed every artistic sin.
we went to sleep before long.
She thought I was asleep first, but I
lay there for hours trying to
decide whether we
really did move together or
And we led each other
down the garden path
you can imagine a toadstool in joints, budding
and sprouting in endless convolutions —
If only that top could be got-
ten off from the under one ! I mean to
try it, little by little.
And then when the sun came and
began to laugh at me,
I swore I would finish it to-day !
by daylight she is subdued, quiet.
there is a lack of sequence, a defiance of
when you follow the uncertain
curves for a little distance they suddenly
destroy themselves in
unheard of contradictions.
Janie looked at me in amazement.
I told her, “
The clocks are all broken.
I have locked the door and thrown the
key down into the front path.
I don’t want to go out, and I don’t
want to have anybody come in,”
She laughed and said she wouldn’t
mind doing it herself, but I must not get
The soft feathers of her hair under my palm
soothed an ache in my imperfect flesh.
All the hours passed by anyway.
changes as the light changes.
I turned it off with a laugh.
When the sun shoots in through the
east window —
I never can quite believe it.
I get unreasonably angry
sometimes. I’m sure I never used to be
it changes so
I cannot let a single hour pass
I even said so one moonlit
evening, but she
would not speak to me and
shut the window.
I got so angry I bit off a
little piece of it at one corner — it hurt
But what is one to do?
the night saunters up to collect his debts
in spite of
our desperate begging for more time
the golden afternoons slipped away,
leaving us with insufficient collateral
so we bargain your hair, my watch-chain,
deal — to be so sly or
shorn and fragile, my face in the mirror
marked by the ravages of love.
You think you have mastered her, but
it is like a bad dream.
day by day, ice blooms in all
the places glass shards flew,
and one day I will look at her
and no longer remember.
We shall sleep downstairs tonight, and
take the boat home tomorrow.
I quite enjoy it bare
This bedstead is fairly gnawed !
it is stripped off —
in great patches all around
we whisper into each others’ shoulders
as faint music from the kitchen
carries with it
traces of other people’s laughter,
other people’s love.
So now she is gone, and the
and the things are gone, and
there is nothing left
I comb my hair and wash her out of my sheets.
I take tonics,
and air, and exercise, and
I am well again.
says the same thing.
He fashions paper roses for his trousseau
as he waits for purity and courtly love
he said there was only one window
and no room to astonish her.