Thursday, January 5, 2017

New Year's Fool









New Year's Fool

I am from yesterday,
but not.

My veil is the cloud of a dozen
dead species of moth,
my too-short skirts some dismal fabric
that only comes in black,
like bombazine.

My face is from nowhere,
but not.

My hands namaste,
my hair is a madwoman's coif,
a harlot's passport.
I stole my maryjanes from
a Harajuku girl

stoned in the Mission,
I have no eyes

but 
you feel me watching you.
Some say I'm a fool,
but 
I'm not.

 ~January 2017




 posted for     real toads

a very impromptu write for









Image: artist unknown, fair use.






16 comments:

  1. This poem delights me to no end. I love the imagery of the veil created by long extinct moths.

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  2. This is the perfect response to this picture..there is something so archetypal about it. Your narrative viewpoint creates a most impelling metaphor.

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  3. You last stanza made me squeal a little. So many tales weaved into those five lines--the eeriness of having no eyes, the haunting watcher, the uncertain dance between what's believed unreal and what once was (maybe). I love it!

    And the image rocks, too.

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  4. I really like how you made the image come alive.. Somehow I can feel she has a part of Miss Havisham's heart. Have you read the Carol Ann Duffy's "Miss Havisham"?

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  5. So well thought out in so many ways.

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  6. You have really captured her well. Love the contradictions you find in her.

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  7. I wonder if a New year's fool is a more wintery, less dismissable fool than the April version. In any case, I expect they are both cruel by turns and this one always able to serve up the unvarnished truth, as opposed to what one might have been expecting or accustomed to. I especially love the moth veil.

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  8. Oh, I like this so much and I agree with Bjorn about a slight similarity to Miss Havisham! I especially enjoyed the lines:

    'My veil is the cloud of a dozen
    dead species of moth'
    and
    'my hair is a madwoman's coif,
    a harlot's passport'.

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  9. Impromptu write coz its a mirror, this fleeting image. And like History herself, the song is attuned by the rocks here and there in its streaming -- the self-describing riddle of here and gone. Violated, discarded, extincting, outsourced, outvoted. Jesters speak their truths three-deep, beneath notice. History stares back that way. Happy New Year.

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  10. Excellently done, Joy. I love the "But I'm not."

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  11. "My hands namaste,
    my hair is a madwoman's coif"

    My lord! That sounds like you're describing me!

    I love the way you work the repetition in this. Stay warm!

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  12. I think I saw the ghost of that girl in the Mission, sans shoes.

    The contra-positive lines work so well here - each like a slip of the rug from underneath the preceding image, encompassing the width and breadth of the opposition ~

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  13. I think the self descriptive voice of that coming and that passed is entirely adequate for what has been and what will be.

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  14. you've given that picture a whole new level of intrigue and depth
    I certainly feel it watching now

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  15. That's rather chilling, especially the closing lines.

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'Poetry is an echo asking a shadow to dance' ~Carl Sandburg