The word ‘witch’ pulled my eyes down into this poem when I saw it first. I don’t know if it’s a romantic notion of paganism, or just a lingering fondness for Buffy the Vampire Slayer, but I like candles. (Not like that, you sicko) And studying the moon. And using words like ‘widdershins’. It might explain the tattoo that runs from my upper thigh to my heart and half way round my back.
To me the first stanza reminds me of my first decade of wildness, ‘braver at night’ and ‘out of mind’. I was young, and ‘possessed’. I put myself in danger, repeatedly. And ’not a woman, quite’.
The second stanza is where I found myself, despite all my best efforts - a ‘warm cave’ the home I bought and paid for myself, a husband, a child - a safe place where I ‘fixed the suppers’. An I too felt ‘misunderstood’, because in my heart I feel wild still, and here I am, digging a garden, wearing sensible shoes and adding insulation to the attic. (And liking it)
The third and final piece allows me, in an odd way to reconcile these two states of being - without having to betray one or the other. I think Anne is referring to Joan of Arc here, who was burnt at the stake for her beliefs, but personally I choose it to be about accepting my own nature, I will ‘wave my nude arms at villages’ and be a ‘survivor’ despite being judged harshly for my eccentricities. I am ‘not ashamed’. I am ‘a woman like that’. A witch, a wife, a woman with strong beliefs. And proud of it.
I have gone out, a possessed witch,
haunting the black air, braver at night;
dreaming evil, I have done my hitch
over the plain houses, light by light:
lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.
A woman like that is not a woman, quite.
I have been her kind.
I have found the warm caves in the woods,
filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves,
closets, silks, innumerable goods;
fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves:
whining, rearranging the disaligned.
A woman like that is misunderstood.
I have been her kind.
I have ridden in your cart, driver,
waved my nude arms at villages going by,
learning the last bright routes, survivor
where your flames still bite my thigh
and my ribs crack where your wheels wind.
A woman like that is not ashamed to die.
I have been her kind.
anne sexton