Smith commutes to the West End to her work as a secretary at a publishing company. Her evenings are spent at home with her beloved aunt - a world of battenberg cake, gossip, ginger nuts and sherry in tiny glasses. But at the same time as leading this seemingly mundane suburban existence, she is writing the piercing poetry and prose that will one day make her famous. Stevie is a biographical snapshot of both the poet and the private woman. Shot through with wit, this is the story of an endearing heroine, her unconventional life, powerful and popular poetry and her greatest struggle: to keep waving and not drowning.
Although I would dearly love to get my hands on a printed copy of this play, I had to suffice by watching Hugh Whitemore's play, the one with Glenda Jackson, Mona Washbourne, Alec McCowen and Trevor Howard.
I say "suffice," but it was hardly that. It was a wonderful. As were Jackson's and Washbourne's performances.
Stevie Smith, English poet, 1902-1971, there is no one quite like her. At first seemingly childish, her poems are simple but read them twice, three times and you will realized they are far from childish, even far from simple. They have an eye upon the world that is tragic, and is accepting of the seen tragedy.