Thanks, Marion.
I thought this theme would work here, and the poems above this post prove that it does. The scope of possibility is vast, and I'm looking forward to reading more of them.
Here are the three from the GT thread:
I went to stay at the Sylvia Beach,
but wouldn’t have done, had I known;
from ‘Ginny’s room when I knocked came a screech
of “go find a room of your own!”
I stayed at the Sylvia Beach Hotel,
in the room called Sylvia Plath:
littered with pills and some gas you can smell
and a heater too close to the bath.
I stayed at the Sylvia Beach last night
in the Oscar Wilde room:
green papered walls, Beardsley prints,
and a peach-bottomed boy you can groom.
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