Poem: Frida to Sharanya

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This is my favourite photo of Frida.

By the time this photograph was taken in 1938, Frida had mastered the art of the unwavering gaze, not to mention the projection of masculinity. The Trotsky and Cristina affairs that wreaked havoc on her marriage had happened; she was in the midst of her first solo exhibition in New York, and would both go to France at the invitation of the Bretons and get divorced the following year. In short, she knew by this time very well who she was and what she wanted. But here she appears vulnerable, unposed, astonishingly feminine. This is why it is my favourite photo of her. Out of the many I have seen (I have dozens more photographs to update that site with, and hope to find the time to do so soon), few have captured her this way. It is as though Julien Levy clicked his camera at the very moment the persona was dropped. It is as though he unmasked a woman famous for the ways she brutally unmasked herself.

I wrote this some time back, and read it at the Viva La Vida reading on Frida’s 101st birthday. Today was my 23rd birthday, and I thought I would share it now. It was inspired by her letters.

FRIDA TO SHARANYA

Sleep wherever is most convenient for you.
Whoever and whatever is left in the morning,
take home. Be kind. All the world is yours for
the taking, long as you know that your little heart is
theirs for the breaking. Leave lipstick on their
china and on your letters. Make sure they know
that you’re a mariposa, blue as copper sulphate,
or blue as the sea, blue as a baby stilled too soon,
darling wench, and you never really intend to leave.
Set love free like a boat with neither oars nor anchors.
Trust it. Don’t trust yourself. Accept every familiar
that comes, even if one happens to be a goat. Forgive
less of people. Remember that things come in triptychs.
Be magnificent, like Coatlicue. You only owe it to me,
but break a mirror now and then, if you can afford it.
Kiss as much as you want to, and as few. Be difficult.
It will make you more desirable. If it will help you to
let him go, cut off your hands. They will grow back.
You don’t need them. You don’t need him. The older
you grow, the more you will amputate. Dance on stumps
if you have to, but don’t stop. Wear one item of red
every Wednesday and when death comes for you,
you will go as his bride. Burn every bridge you ever
built, and build as many as you possibly can. The one
that takes you home will be the last one standing.
Sing over the bones. Go slow.
Don’t forget me.

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10 responses »

  1. I really liked the poem … not so much the description of the pic. I think the pic and poem speak for themselves, while your editorializing about the photo breaks the mood they create together (IMHO). You have some great lines and powerful images. “blue as a baby stilled too soon”, and “The older you grow, the more you will amputate” are two of my favorites. Write on.

  2. ht — Thanks, am glad you like the poem. :) But this is a personal blog, not a poetry one or a link-filter one, so what can you expect that isn’t “editorializing”?

    Deanjbaker — Thanks.

    Ms. Jen — Thanks! How have you been? :)

    The Bride — Thank you.

  3. Read about u in the newspaper recently. That is how i came to this site. I loved those lines u had written in the newspaper- i am a chronically heart- broken person. And it is the process of joining together the broken parts that sometimes turns into poetry.
    I think that is what defines a true artist, for an artist is deeply sensitive. Pain is his most potent tool- the magic wand with which he creates.
    I have a deep reverence for frida, vincent van gogh and kamala das, all of whom transformed their pain into art.
    Keep writing…and god bless!

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