Charlotte Bronte and the Birds

Dear Ms Nixie,

I am writing to you, a ghost known by many but really known by few in truth. It was once said; “I am no bird, and no net ensnares me, I am a free human being with independent will.” That person was me. Ah, to be a woman and a writer too, was a terrible struggle indeed you know. So much was left unsaid and still it is so. It is one of the reasons I write to you dear maiden of the Millennium and on. They craft movies now based on my work. It is strange to watch from the rafters, in between the walls and floating through windows and doors like a mourning dream or a joyous revival of forgotten memories. I see the players fair, with strapping chaps in firmer fits than of the time (I’m not at all complaining of course). I Charlotte Bronte, am surely 100 thrice and more times a celebrity than during life within the confines of a mortal absoluteness. I wanted to tell you I knew philosophers. I wanted to tell you I knew musicians. I wanted to tell you I knew writers. I came back to tell you I could fly. I came back to tell you I was in fact ensnared. I wanted so to be free though. Do you know the great philosopher Kierkegaard? He is acclaimed for his work in existentialism We were friends. Oh I fancied him somewhat I must admit. I met him in Brussels in a small coffee house where he was visiting from Denmark. Brussels is where I resided for some time. We spoke of free will, of birds, of freedom, of choices. We spoke of religion and dogma, the good, the bad and everything that connects to what is most important to those who matter most…Love, love in its freest form. It was then that he took our ideas to the boys of academia and therein made a name for himself. It saddened me again it did. Already I had changed my name, hidden my womanhood to publish work. I wanted to be a woman though Nixie. I didn’t want to be a man at all. My ideas in relation to existentialism   and this man remained uncited.

Do you know I LOVE, LOVE AND LOVE to write poems? Well I did do but now I find myself the inhabitant of current day poets. There I bring my spirit into the ventricles of their hearts so that I may live on and on for I never did want to give it up, writing that is. It’s terribly romantic, much more sexually alert than pornography if you want it to be. I suppose we avoided that which was completely overt to the point of excruciating need at times too. Ah and then we knew with such utter yearning we were ALIVE in the wanting.

I was terribly and utterly hurt by many a man you know, though I found love with Arthur, my Knight. Well I called him this but really I was more so the Knight. Armour I wore to battle the storms of every rejection, of every forgotten word. The worst of it was Robert Southey who rejected my poems wholeheartedly. He suggested in no uncertain terms that I should give up on writing altogether. Nobody knows as much who Robert Southey is now and my name is everywhere. It was the way of it then. And isn’t it true that even now, more of the chaps are making money from movies about my life and with my books, my work, than are the women? Well I happen to know it is true. This makes me feel I am still the ensnared bird but I can fly. I did fly. I came back to tell you I could fly. I came back to tell you I am a good person. I am a woman. I am with wings that could have been soaring like a triumph in my darkest yearning but I am also coming back to tell you they were clipped too. I want people to remember that.

Yours truly,

Ms Charlotte Bronte.

Dear Ms Bronte,

Darling how honoured I am to make your acquaintance. I shall be sure to publish your words for all to know and read. I am most certainly a fan and avid supporter of your work and thank you with undying gratitude for the pathways you have have forged in equal rights, in feminism in love and romance and the beautiful crafftwomanship of turning imaginations into something we might write home about, that we might shout from the rooftops.

It’s funny you should write me because I too have a hidden life. You know I’m a budding Ornithologist. I love them! I love birds. Oh my, what a delight. I love the freedom of their dance, the feathered fans that seem to glide away from pain and right towards something of an open release. I love their music and the colours like tribal paint and tattoos that makes the inky watermark of nature costume their coats in something we can classify but must never cage at all.

I’m sorry to hear of your past troubles with Kierkegaard and Southey. Not all loves or those we yearn for end well I suppose. I had a love once like those fellows, thought he was into birds like me. Ah but then he seemed to be embracing a whole new jock culture with balls, and babes on the beach and bikinis and so forth. I have to say there was a time when this bird word nerd had to shed a little tear and move onwards too. Alas people change sometimes, though I never have all that much. But like you said;

“crying does not indicate that you are weak, since birth it has always been a sign that you are alive!”

Yours truly,

Nixie

Dear Nixie,

She dried her tears and they did smile

To see her cheeks returning glow

How little dreaming all the while

That full heart throbbed to overflow

With that sweet look and lovely tone

And bright eye shining all the day

They could not guess at midnight lone

How she would weep the time away

Emily Bronte.

It’s my sister’s poem. Cry when you will. Cry, laugh, whisper, speak with strength or gently coo in dulcet tones. Whatever you feel my dear girl. Move on, step by step. There is never such a thing as an unimportant day even if others make you feel as such.

Yours truly

Charlotte

Ps Is Mr Firth set to do any more period dramas, preferably in knickerbockers?? No reason. Just wondering?? A suggestion perhaps.....Dear Ms Nixie,

Dear Charlotte,

I’m not sure in regards to Firth. I’m afraid I have no such power in this world to decide on the bottom garments of chaps in the movies.  Goodness knows I’ve certainly tried. I do however have a little poem for you.

Little Plume

Quill in the forest

Found my heart

As a desert’s lonely

thirst

Wrote my love

To the ocean

To the giddy

Swell of

wild

Gyre storms

Fly, sweet the birdy

Glide, in the will of

Tomorrow.

Stay awake

Little treasure

We did not need to find

For your heart was the trove

All along

Love.

Yours Truly

Nicla.

Ps I can send Firth these if you so desire? xx

Nixie, 

Definitely, please do asap with skates on, ta and mwah darling. 

Lottie xx