PERSONNEL I

Abetha Gill, Anne Milton’s servant,

Is about 40 and has red hair.

I wish I knew what she did

Before she appeared one day

In a poem I was writing.

She does not approve of Satan

But once gave him a scarf.

MORE ON ANNE MILTON

“It all”, said Satan, ”comes down to imagination.”

Anne Milton was annoyed with him.

He could tell because her lips were thin

And she had slopped tea putting down his saucer.

His fault, really; he shouldn’t have given her the book

A proof copy of Christopher Hill’s great life

Of her brother. Not published yet; not even written

And Professor Hill still centuries away from being born.

But proof copies turn up in odd places.

“You might have told me; it made me feel so lost

Reading that I died years ago.” Satan sipped his tea

Not as hot as it should be and too much honey

“God and Christopher Hill say you are dead

And lying quiet in your grave. I say otherwise;

I say you live here; like the people to your left;

Fight with those who live to the right of you.

It all comes down to imagination. God imagined me

Or, as He likes to say, created. And, to give God his due,

“He made a good job of it. I was a wonderful angel

And, as a demon, who can compare with me?,

It is a poor creature who never fights his creator

A bad son who dies with ‘Yes, Father’ on his lips

I insist you did not die but give me the welcome

Your brother refuses. Two of a trade can never agree

And he and I two  rebels. You live, I say again

Because I will have a friend in this cold city.”

Just like that –for every reason and none—

Between a sip and a swallow, her anger faded

“What is it like to be damned?” she said.

ANOTHER ANNE MILTON POEM

There are many Anne Milton poems. Deal with it.

God came to Anne Milton’s house

One wet November night to find

Satan in the kitchen drinking tea

With just a touch of something in it

To ward off the chill. Satan nodded as if

It was the most ordinary thing to see

His great friend, his eternal foe

Contracting Himself so that his head

Barely scraped against the low ceiling.

Another cup appeared; Anne filled it

Angels crowded around the house

Peering through windows, listening at doors

Having hastily made for themselves bodies

From mist or smoke or gutter-fallen leaves.

Abetha Gill,46,Anne’s red-haired maid,

Drove them briskly away, saying

“This is a respectable house; we’ll not have

Angels larking about. There’s the Queenshead

Three roads over. It is filled with demons

But they have manners. Pay for your own drinks

And there will be no problems.”

Today's poem

ANNE MILTON SPEAKS ABOUT SATAN, WHO HAS STOPPED BY AFTER AN EVENING SPENT LISTENING TO HER BROTHER JOHN DICTATING PARADISE LOST

To give him his due – unwise to give him less! –

Satan is the best of mimics. When he talks about

His family I can see them each before me

His spine stiffens; the humor flees from his eyes

And there is Michael; his fingers on the hilt

Of a rustless sword. A subtle twitch; Uriel is there

Always a step behind and two steps to the side.

I’ve never met Galadriel, but I know her blink;

I know how the Recording Angel cocks his head

Listening for the echo of his own lost name.

Then God is there and there is no room for me

Too much light, too much roaring silence.

If I could speak, if I could ask, if I could exist

In the face of this, I would beg that it stop.

It does; my house stands; I am not mere ashes.

Thank God! It is only Satan sitting here

A hand on his forehead, his eyes like candles.

As far as I am concerned, Anne Milton did not die young lived long enough to make friends with Satan, who would come by after a long evening of listening to John dictate Paradise Lost. As proof that this is so, I have a large number of poems by or about her. Who could ask for more solid evidence than this? (Comments are more than welcome; however I already know about Galadriel).