Writing with Witch Archetypes (Part 2)
Witch-Wife, Witch Wife, or Bella Baxter? + Color Magic (Creative Writing Prompt)

If a witch is a person who re-enchants the world with a fresh perspective untethered by the patriarchy, then Poor Things’ Bella Baxter is a witch. Emma Stone danced and masturbated her way into my heart. I’m so happy she won the Oscar. The Academy wasn’t “snubbing” Barbie but the gross consumerism evident in a film that seems at times to be simply an extended commercial for Mattel.1
In my Writing with Witch Archetypes class, students have compared the opening stanza of Edna St. Vincent Millay’s poem “Witch-Wife” to Bella Baxter:
She is neither pink nor pale, And she never will be all mine; She learned her hands in a fairy-tale, And her mouth on a valentine.
No shade on the color pink but it does seem to be the color most emblematic of a submissive, ultra-feminine brand of womanhood. Of course there are ways to subvert a reader’s expectations (as Kiki Petrosino does in her poem “Witch Wife” where she writes “my pink gloves, my green gloves” as she possibly boasts of murdering her enemies.)
Students have pointed out that Bella Baxter too had to learn how to be a person through reading books. Before Bella begins her journey of self-exploration, her “hands” explore her own body freely. Masturbation is not learned in a “fairy tale.” But she has to reign in her sexuality somewhat in order to become a part of society.
I’m not sure how valentines were perceived in Millay’s time but to me they are sentimental, a kind of lie. “And her mouth on a valentine” evokes a perfect, pink, bow-tied, mouth. A mouth that is shut, a woman who is silenced.
In the poem, I believe the witch learns and subverts conventional notions of feminine beauty in order to get what she wants, or to simply avoid punishment. However, Bella’s mouth opens to speak her mind, or moan in pleasure, whether that is from an orgasm or a dessert.
Bella is much like the speaker in Kiki Petrosino’s “Witch Wife.” Even in the title, Petrosino unhitches her speaker from another by eliminating the hyphen.
As Pam Grossman writes in the foreword to Literary Witches, “…I’ve come to realize that the Witch is arguably the only female archetype that has power on its own terms. She is not defined by anyone else. Wife, sister, mother, virgin, whore – these archetypes draw meaning based on relationships with others.”
Although I believe a witch is someone who is in relationship with nature, ancestors, Spirit, etc., I believe what Grossman means is that she is not defined by any traditional human relationship with restrictive gender or other norms.
As we just passed Spring Equinox and approach Easter, Kiki Petrosino’s response to Millay’s poem feels particularly apt to share.
Witch Wife I’ll conjure the perfect Easter & we’ll plant mini spruces in the yard— my pink gloves & your green gloves like parrots from an opera over the earth— We’ll chatter about our enemies’ spectacular deaths. I’ll conjure the perfect Easter dark pesto sauce sealed with lemon long cords of fusilli to remind you of my hair & my pink gloves. Your gloves are green & transparent like the skin of Christ when He returned, filmed over with moss roses— I’ll conjure as perfect an Easter: provolone cut from the whole ball woody herbs burning our tongues—it’s a holiday I conjure with my pink-and-green gloves wrangling life from the dirt. It all turns out as I’d hoped. The warlocks of winter are dead & it’s Easter. I dig up body after body after body with my pink gloves, my green gloves.
My students have interpreted this poem broadly as a witch re-claiming her pagan roots from a Christianity that has co-opted them. Since Petrosino is American, I saw the bodies at the end as the literal bodies of Black and indigenous people whose genocide by colonialists built the wealth of the country. Perhaps she is resurrecting them in an act of social justice, fitting of the eclipse in Libra. But this is just one interpretation. I’m very curious about what you think, dear reader!
Creative Writing Prompt:
Write a response to Edna St. Vincent Millay’s “Witch-Wife” in the form of a poem or flash piece. Kiki Petrosino’s “Witch Wife” is a good model.
Consider some of the elements in Millay’s poem. How could you update or defamiliarize them? For example, the color pink appears in Millay’s poem as a reference to skin: “She is neither pink nor pale.” Petrosino defamiliarizes this element with “my pink gloves, my green gloves.” Perhaps the strangest element Petrosino adds is food, transforming Millay’s “she has more hair than she needs” to “dark pesto sauce sealed with lemon/long cords of fusilli to remind you of my hair.”
As a challenge, you could use synesthesia as Millay does with “And her voice is a string of colored beads/Or steps leading into the sea.”
Word Limit:
500
Interested in reading your creative work or any responses below! Also, how are you doing in this eclipse season? For me, it’s less “my pink gloves, my green gloves,” and more like I want to bury myself naked in the mud! Also, if you have thoughts on color magic, let me know!
In fairness, I found Oppenheimer to be mediocre. So one can’t rule out the white supremacist patriarchy ever in these awards, or anything.
ill post something - poem - over the weekend :-)
Defamiliarising the nature of a dream;
how will you begin? roll golden phoenix-eggs in fine grainy sand
scratch
feel scratched
cut that sharply cuts the blackest road. white-solid-divider-line separating iron-clad directions of life
scratching the
feathered arc of magpie wing rolling through air, meaning; how do you begin?
butter morning warbles melting golden snow ribbons though breaded soul
Did you know magpies have over 900 syllables and a 4 octave register. Their dinner-time warble is brief and beautiful. Enchanting. Fine. Flutey. Floats away in twisting rising spirals.
To Begin; I notice our campfire is drawing in and wonder how that works within the shape of a day?
He told me a day was the ballerina’s arm arcing into the arms of her lover, her prince, as he arched her naked body into the swishing air between them.
It was actually a curse materialising many years later. It oozed out in time like puss from an ulcer that wouldn't be healed,
Like memories that loop away as unstable interconnecting arcs
Circulating, never right here, scratching. Write here;
Like rolling ball-shaped things up hills that feel like mountains and. Instead the piercing fragments littler, accumulating golden buttery lies (It’s enchanting).
To what end? The colour has changed. Smells like death-stop and the bullshit memories make fake dreams that present themselves as the rolling of self-deception upwards because there is success to be hard in that. I feel tired.
Connecting
Wings-of-
Double-helix-
Twisting-
Did you wish me dead?
Ever hex instead
Do you believe me?
And now?
Conceivably it was hear the warble first stained black, scratching deeply, iron wrapped over iron, tightly piercing rhythms, arm. The arc of the day changed. The murky brown ooze was delighted amusement from the sidelines. Old Jaffas arching looping in her direction. Her ballerina arm festering. Blisters oozing. It was an expanding sticky orange chocolate gooey fleshy buttery yellow mess. Shape and taste change. Don’t blame it on the Devil.
She lifted that black oozing arm and opened the black empty door before her. The door opened into emptiness.
Not everything is as it seems.
Don’t blame it on the Magician.
Don’t blame it on me.
The evening crickets will bring their tides.