We Need to Talk about Susan
On each weekday, when early worms are not yet awake
she stands in front of the mirror, lipstick in hand
and readies her pale armour for another perforated day.
Marcus is still in bed, the man a muscular specimen
of good humour and gentle, gracious brain.
Their friends have already thought of chapels and rings
but the couple are content cohabitants of a cherished blissful home.
She kisses him, and then slips to the kitchen
armed for the day with an amorous dress
and nylon stockings.
Her clients at work are varied, cheery criminals and
down-trodden divorcees, desperately wishing to keep
a family home devoid of familiarity.
One she suggests mediation, another should search
for a good, crisp, criminal lawyer.
The rumours are hard to disregard
swirling around the office, suggesting in seductive whispers
she will be made the successor of Mr Daniels,
a partner in the firm.
It is obvious after all, her overfilling career
crammed with victories, vast successes
and a humour and personality that papers over
all people's hurt.
There are even murmurs about Her Majesty
appointing her a judge, for this just and gentle queen
is perfect for the job.
Mr Daniels's only annoyance, daft as it may be
is her pro bono work, bound tightly
in her spare time, sharing her skills
to help those too hindered to otherwise afford it.
The first attack comes, awful and without warning.
They care little for consent or good manners
coming into her life, demanding concern and attention.
She sees the bodies, soft tissue rent by steel
and for a second, she is some little child
left to deal with devastating adulthood alone.
She does not falter, for frankly life does not care
and with a great, gasping lungful of air
she returns to work, well-applied make-up
hiding the grey paleness of her grieving pallor.
By evening, the ensuing attacks
have come and gone, and with great effort
she pulls herself to some pulsating party
where people sing and prance.
Most important of all, it makes her smile
and who can harbour such hatred and vile
at laughter and light-filled happiness.
Marcus arrives, his mouth soon on hers
and with booming voice, bores anyone with stories
of his glorious “god-damn sexy not-quite wife”.
She laughs and blushes, and because it makes her happy
she plays her role, purring and prancing
to the joy of the room.
Her goddaughter is awoken by the great festivities
and Susan sends herself to help the girl to sleep.
The girl is so sad and Susan tells stories
of menacing witches and meaner lions,
and the girl screams, stamps her feet,
loving every second of the very special story.
She hugs her godmother, giving her a wide smile,
showing wonderful white teeth,
but refuses to let go, restricting Susan's arms
as the girl begins to sob.
Laughing kindly, kissing her on the forehead,
Susan asks what is wrong, wishing to nurse
any pain from the poor girl.
She tells her the wardrobe makes certain noises
and Susan is more scared, more scarred
than ever she thought she could be.
Taking a chair, then taking another
she stacks them tight, removing the temptation
of ever opening the door.
“There, little one,” she lightly smiles,
“no one can hurt you now”.
When Marcus and her meander back to their house
she pauses at the pewter door-knocker
a lion, that looks like some limp little mouse.
It was her choice to choose such an ornament
just like how her life is hers to live.
And it reminds her, roaring every day,
that what lies behind her door is beautiful and perfect
because it is hers, because she is free,
and not at the mercy of some capricious mouse.
who is just but a mouse.
Don’t tell Mr Barthes
We Need to Talk About Susan is a poem I wrote back in 2015, which now seems an age ago. While I don’t often write much poetry, my style has developed quite a bit since then and yet I still like this one.
Firstly, it has a little stylistic flourish which makes it not quite free verse. It might be noticeable that this is written in what is essentially modernised Anglo-Saxon verse. In Old English poetry, the central building block of a poem was not rhyme but alliteration. Each line was split into halves, and the major stress of each half was alliterative. What I did with Susan was write in this split line approach and then make it a little cleaner looking. I smoothed the lines back into a single unit, while still keeping the alliteration. I’m not sure it entirely works, but I’m happy with how it turned out.
Of course, the main area of discussion is content, though. We Need to Talk About Susan is fanfiction. The poem is about Susan Pevensie of Narnia, which, if you’ve never read the Narnia books may seem like an odd choice. Let me elaborate.
C.S Lewis’s Narnia is a wonderfully imaginative children’s series, because when we read it at a tender age, we’re not old enough to pick up on the subtext. When we return to it, a little older and a little wiser, it becomes problematic. It becomes a religious text with all the luggage that brings.
Most of all, Susan.
In the last book, Susan can no longer go to Narnia. She is, in fact, “no longer a friend”. The reasoning for this? She has grown up. She cares about lipstick and nylon stockings. In Lewis’s own words, she is:
a rather silly, conceited young woman. But there’s plenty of time for her to mend and perhaps she will get to Aslan’s country in the end… in her own way.
And here is where that luggage comes from. Because Susan’s silly and conceited ways are not very silly or conceited at all. They are normal. Susan has found her own version of femininity and sexuality and therefore becomes a silly girl, someone banished from Narnia. She is no longer a friend of Aslan. Later writers have taken exception to this. As Philip Pullman says:
I just don’t like the conclusions Lewis comes to, after all that analysis, the way he shuts children out from heaven, or whatever it is, on the grounds that the one girl is interested in boys. She’s a teenager! Ah, it’s terrible: Sex—can’t have that.
Neil Gaiman took the criticism a step forward by actually writing a short story, The Problem of Susan. I loved the principle of it. It is exceedingly well-written as always. But the actual delivery left me unsatisfied. It’s about how Susan has to handle identifying the bodies of her family, and how unfair Narnia really is if you think about it. Which to me still puts Susan as a tool to discuss the wider place of Narnia.
What I wanted to do was write something which wasn’t about how unfair it was for Susan to be left behind, but to celebrate the fact that she lived her life. And that she lived it free of the will of someone who forgets about “once a queen, always a queen” because a young woman acts like a young woman.
Basically I wanted to show that a woman could care about lipsticks and nylon stockings, be intelligent and kind, and has to deal with the painful memory of her family’s death, while also not needing to believe in Narnia anymore. And in fact, suggesting Narnia may not be the best place in the world after all. Maybe the best place in the world is in fact here.