To Mrs. F. Scott Fitzgerald

May 11, 2017
By grace_ingram BRONZE, Oswego, Illinois
grace_ingram BRONZE, Oswego, Illinois
3 articles 0 photos 0 comments

Hello Mrs. F. Scott Fitzgerald,
Your beauty just can not be matched
It moves and it grooves like bopping jazz music
You’re what all men wish they could catch

Your eyes always pierce with intelligence,
Your brain does just about the same,
And no one is spared from the awe-struck inferno
That hits them when you walk away

You’re an idol, a trainwreck, a goddess
And one that desires some fame
So truly, I’ve found it’s a tragedy,
You lack your own lovely name

I’m sure he looked like a cool lemonade
On a blazing hot summer day
And so, I suppose, I’m not one to blame you
For wanting that trouble to stay

He swept you up into a love like no other
A love of the roaring twenties
You danced and you drank and you twinkled like stars
You peered within him intently

He wrote like he knew every detail of your soul
You felt as though that could be true
He admired your work (so much that he took it)
You admired his eyes shining blue

His three names never ceased; they soared ‘round the globe,
And you watched as his fame unfurled
And though he would say it was just as much yours
Your heart did a sinister twirl

Why isn’t my handsome five-letter name known?
As scotch burned a hole in your throat
How can I go on without those sweet syllables?
While fighting to just stay afloat

But your name is not sweet, it’s not even close
It’s powerful, radiant, wild
You must realize you’re larger than what he has made
You’re a refulgent, summer-storm child

But you never knew this, Mrs. F. Scott Fitzgerald,
So the bitter built up in your mind
It boiled and brewed like nuclear waste
Till your sanity began to unwind

You drank and you drank and you screamed at that man
The one with three names and a smile
The one you were sure knew you inside and out
But no one did, not even you, not for a while

And you’d cry till the tears didn’t come anymore
You’d cry ‘cause you wasted your brain
You’d cry ‘cause you lacked an identity
You’d cry ‘cause you weren’t the same

So what was it like, Mrs. F. Scott Fitzgerald,
To feel yourself slowly go mad?
Was it agonizing, gruesome, throbbing and raw?
Did you lose sight of what you once had?

And now that your love with that beautiful man
Has burned up like you will at death
It’s time for you to share your enigmatic name
So say it, one last screaming breath


The author's comments:

Grace Ingram is a creative writing student at Oswego High School. She enjoys writing poetry and drawing outside of school. She is a fluent Spanish speaker who enjoys surprising people with a snetence or two every once in a while, and she periodically writes her poetry in Spanish.


This piece was written as a response to the life and legacy of Zelda Fitzgerald. It comments on her image as perfect 1920s flapper as well as the hardships she faced.

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