The Mystic

Jim Spencer

I am the luckiest man in the world. That’s not what you would expect to hear coming from someone who tragically lost the love of his life, partner, muse, traveling buddy, closest friend, and lover. The reason I am so fortunate is that for more than fourteen years I was blessed by also being all these things to Pauline Uchmanowicz, the legendary poet, professor, literary scholar, and champion of righteousness. It is gratifying for me to see her greatness so widely recognized; even as her fame grew, I was with her for such a long portion of that time, and I am truly grateful for that face, which cannot be changed by misfortune. But it wasn’t until after Pauline’s death that I began to realize that she also had a supernatural side to her—something of which I was previously unaware.

The day she died I had come home early and we took a long walk in the beautiful afternoon weather. She was done with the semester, finished her dry academic publishing pursuits, and was finally able to think about our project contrasting Edna Saint Vincent Millay with Emily Dickinson. While studying poetry at the University of Massachusetts, Pauline had lived across the street from the home of Emily Dickinson for years. We had recently taken a serendipitously private tour of the reclusive poet’s house and we had also been on a tour of Edna Saint Vincent Millay’s compound in the Berkshires. Our best friends have a pool with tiki bars and lots of parties, so strikingly reminiscent of Edna Saint Vincent Millay that we had been talking about it periodically for over a year. Why was Millay—the most famous poet in the United States in the 1940’s—virtually unknown today, while Dickinson—unknown during her lifetime—is widely recognized today? Our thesis was that Millay was almost the first slam poet, relying on her booming voice and dynamic persona for her fame, like a performance artist. When the artist dies, so does the art. Dickinson, by contrast, wrote poetry that stands on its own. Pauline’s poetry, of course, stands on its own, but her over-sized personality unmistakably evokes comparison to Millay (who, I bet, wore red lipstick just like Pauline).

Pauline and I talked about these things during our long walk and later during dinner, and then by the fireplace, as I massaged her feet. She was finally going to write about something she was passionate about, without regard to the exigencies of academia. We fell asleep in front of the fire.

When I woke up near morning she was gone, and I went up to bed. The empty bed prompted me to go look for her, finally discovering her at the bottom of the basement stairs quite dead; conscientiously bustling down to empty the dehumidifier before bed, her haste had propelled her through the steep void, not even touching the flight as she tripped. I was stunned, but it was not long before I remembered the conversations we’d had the day before. Millay was found, at fifty-eight, dead, at the bottom of her stairs.

When the police came they were the first people I talked to about this, after the tragedy, and I continued obsessing throughout their long due-diligence at the police station. They said it made shivers go down their spines. I had forgotten, however, in my semi-catatonic state, about her last poem, yet unpublished.

It took Johanna Hall, her writing partner, to remind us of her final poem, which we both—I am proud to acknowledge—had helped her with before her death. As in the case of Dickinson’s, the work speaks for itself.

The Mystic

Legerdemain, possibly,

was her sideline—now you

see it, now you—deft

as  a casino dealer,

smooth as scotch

she shuffled, eyes

directed heavenward,

tossing off divination

easily as texting.

After my cut, deck

spread across a baize

tabletop, she instructed

pick three,_her

incense vision of

my future all pasty

and lightning bugs, tandem

bicycles and ice fishing.

My lifeline, on the other hand,

kept predicting, time’s up.

Was she prescient or was this all just coincidence? I began to search my memory for other mystical phenomena. I remember Pauline saying, a week before she died, as she looked at her closet full of clothes: “I don’t have to buy any clothes for the rest of my life.” This was an unusual statement coming from my beautiful clothes-loving mate, and I disagreed, for it was a joy for her to buy new clothes, but she insisted.

At the end of the weekend before she died she bid goodbye to our best friends by saying “I won’t see you again” in such a wistful way that it prompted them to reassure her that they would be back in a week. 

I hardly ever take pictures, but the rare scene by the pool, with the normally sun-loving Pauline totally covered in the warm early summer afternoon, prompted me to take this one, the last picture of her.

Our friends said it looked like a shroud.  Was it?

The sunset the day after she died was so strikingly colorful that several people took pictures, and grieving at our friend’s house, I was called outside to see it. I was wearing one of Pauline’s shirts, a colorful tie-dye with brown stripes. The beautiful sunset coming through tree branches perfectly matched my shirt, even the placement of the stripes resembling the branches. We were all amazed at the coincidence. The next day I wore a bright yellow shirt, a gift from Pauline. The totally different sunset from the back of the house again was reflected perfectly in the colors of the shirt. Was she speaking from beyond the grave?

Whether supernatural or not, Paulina, as many of her friends knew her, is clearly still with us. She occupies the thoughts and haunts the dreams of the many she touched in life. The emotional tributes to her after her death affirmed that part of her is still inside us. Of course, it could be that Pauline left such a deep impression upon us that it makes us think, or want to believe, that she speaks to us although dead. But one thing is undeniable. Pauline’s poetry does talk to us with its poignant lyricism as it reaches into our hearts and minds. Her work will resound for posterity even as her physical presence fades.

God took Paulina

But she so enriched the world

Her spirit lingers.

Pauline Uchmanowicz’s last poem, spring 2019, courtesy of Jim Spencer.