To Be Frida

1.    To Be Frida

To be Frida is not to just tuck flowers in your hair

and don cotton skirts, beads, and stern gazes.
It is not to sport a lunch bag with an infantilized avatar,
         oversized eyes under a unibrow
         with a monkey.
         She is not Dora the Explorer.

She is Frida the Artist. 

To be an artist is to plunge your brush into your heart,

as if drawing the blood through an IV tube
and letting quivering veins bleed upon the canvas.
Droplets spill onto your dress.

It is to remember the bone crushing pain

below the waistline, broken columns, and
to lie in bed to watch fissures fossilize and distortions calcify.

It is to mirror yourself,

give birth to your self,

and adorn yourself with thorns.

It is to be cut wide open for the world

to stomp onto your pulsating heart,

beating all alone.

Repel and compel others to look at your wounds
and dare to pronounce you less of a woman.

To be Frida is to laugh and think with spirit.

Be fearless, and find refuge in the nature, 

Love so openly and deeply, bringing it forward to soften the pain.

It is to master peace and beauty, and melt into the surreal.

Don't even try.

Note: This Halloween I dressed up as Frida Kahlo, and someone joked with me if I embodied her spirit. This poem came from that remark. I could only be her on the surface.

2. Poem To Frida

Secrets are stitched into colorful fabrics

to shroud your soul. 

Sidelong glances at men,

while only one streams in your heart.

You shout through your brush to him:

          Let me cut you off and drain my veins of the pains  

          and life you’ve given me. 

          Let me go dry and renew myself. 

           As a cicada loses it shell – let it be a fragile

          impression of the woman 
          I was paining and painting. 

Note: I wrote this in 2008 after viewing a special art exhibit at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. It was so wonderful that I wanted to touch every painting to get closer to her.

 

3. Dorothy and Frida

When she fell from the window,

she took the clouds with her.

-         -  For "The Suicide of Dorothy Hale"

 

Note: I saw this painting at the Philadelphia Museum of Art and I was blown away by the painting and the story behind it. This is one of the examples where Frida painted the frame as well as the art work. The story behind the inspiration and events behind this painting truly show Frida's fierceness.

Dorothy Hale was a socialite and aspiring actress in the 1930's. In 1938, after attended social events, she pinned on yellow flowers and leapt from her apartment window to her death.  One of her friend's was the prominent Clare Booth Luce and she paid Frida to create a painting in Dorothy's honor as a memorial gift for Dorothy's mother.

Frida obviously went dark on this. Rather than presenting a traditional tribute or memorial painting, she painted the grisly scene of the death. Supposedly, she was battling her own depression and suicidal thoughts at the time. When this painting was delivered to Mrs. Luce, she was horrified. There was nothing she could do, especially since her name was written on the painting as the patron.

Honestly, I don't blame her.  Personally, I wonder if this was a statement to Mrs. Luce and what she represented as part of the American elite class. She was miserable with the whole scene that Diego was falling into and she rejected. See her painting "My Dress Hangs There" It's not as if Frida does not know how to do a portrait, but she chose to let her feelings and emotions paint this one.

I also have other blogs I wrote about Frida Kahlo's art and life:
Assumptions of Frida (2008)
Frida Kahlo (2007)

Luna Incognito

This moon is for you alone. 

It will morph, dwarf and flourish as it dives into your dreams.

You will see it spin into colors

like a swirling lollipop,

a twirling lemon drop or

a Christmas tree top.

This evening it may be a slender balloon animal of a spindly porcupine eating a pink marshmallow
or was it a sticky, orange jelabi?

First, you must be still.

That is all you can do at this moment.

You must endure the angst of uncertainty.

You will harden under the pain of patience,

Wait for it to turn into something recognizable, tolerable.

Explore every angle to see if there is a sign.

A code

a symbol

a wink

            a smile 

However, it’s at the moment of fatigue and frustration
when you have no strength

that the moon will reveal itself
and lend you the energy.
It will happen in its own time.

Do not rush.

The true form will be presented,
one that you will recognize.

An iridescent light will shimmer

upon those enduring in uncertainty
in the darkness.

You will be invigorated by 

the lightness,
the ripeness,
the robustness

of a single satellite,

      the traveler flying at night
            to lead others out of the darkness.

Lipstick, 2017

On Meeting Morrison

The effort we put into getting lecture tickets

was unbelievable. Had I put that much effort and

dedication into any other aspect of my life, I’d be rich and famous

or even published.

A hurricane prevented us from meeting another author,

but that’s fine. “It’s not like she’s Toni Morrison.”

There was another acclaimed writer. My nervous chatter evoked a smile

of amusement and gratitude in her. I could handle that. 

What could I say to Toni Morrison?

Driving to meet Morrison, I thought of what she meant to me.

The supreme storyteller. Woman of strength and intellect.

Words poised themselves at her pen to form

knives that dive into your soul,

knives that make your scars bleed.

They stole my milk.

The maternal instinct to kill a child to save her.

The simple beauty you see when you open

your eyes to the ugliness.

To write like her, we cannot do it. Few mortals possess this skill.

We struggle to find

words

plots

time

a place in our lives to write.

We who dream of one acceptance letter from a publisher cannot

dream of a Nobel.

Kripa and I cut the end of the lecture

to secure a place in line. Stood in the long library hallway,

high ceilings echoed footsteps on stone and amplified hushed tones, 

drowning out any sounds of the lecture. We calculated the distance from the table, the number

of bodies and the books they held. We would make it.

We rehearsed what we would say: “We love your work.”

Kripa wanted a signature on a card for a special patient who“loves your work.”

We watched the faces of those who returned with signed copies

or a mere glimpse of her majestic Author.

They beamed, they glowed. They had seen the blessed Writer.

We longed to be there and feel her Power.

We hoped she would endow us with her secrets,

accept our words, our gratitude.

We hoped we would gain a bit of the fairy dust that dances in her aura, that

would make us write as she does.

Yet, we were only nameless faces in line. Bodies with back packs and

winter coats, scarves swaddling our throats as we clutched dog-eared copies

of Beloved or glossy new ones from the table outside.

We approached the table only to perform a silent

exchange of a book for a signature.

She glanced at me with curiosity

as I requested a handshake. She complied softly.

As Kripa stepped ahead, the lights of a cameraman

forced the Author to look away.

Their eyes barely met.

In moments we were walking away. Our books suddenly seemed

empty and Kripa’s card was blank. We made our way through the crowd,

a queue of anticipation and excitement, meandering through the Hall. 
 Should we tell them?

As we left the library with coffee in styrofoam cups, 
we pulled hoods over our heads, 
careful not to let the rain fall on our books or coffee.