INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
Paul B. Roth
Karyn M. Wolven
As a woman, she learned that in a baroque
Renaissance she was not less proficient
Than a man, in fact, just as good stroke-for-stroke in each
Endeavor--canvas by canvas--that she undertook.
Men--those lying devils--were not, not
Including her father Orazio, to be trusted,
Should not be believed. They bruited falsely.
Instead, she followed her own golden thread.
Ahead of her time, she would take (like Clio and Minerva)
Great strides, paint greatly the tropes of
Each dream that would be in a Medicean terrain
Not leave the orbit of her mind, that would
Take over her Roman spirit, that would
Inculcate within her a desire, a drive, to
Live the artistic life--courtly and ecumenical--despite
Every offense given her--rape, neglect, abuse--by those
Single-minded, lazy, self-indulgent, brutish
Curs that sniffed around her chiascuro.
Her dream grew in perspective with her visual
Intelligence and skillful hand--innately hers.
FRIDA KAHLO (RIVERA)
Freed by her fractures, SHE, incising
Rivera's otherness as his Aztec Santa,
Isis of Coyoacan, a lush jungle
Dadaed with open wounds and blood
Allas of butterbirds and lexicosex,
Kudzus of riveting red rios and canons,
A vein to her bruised body and open
Heart of Mexico's arta y misteria,
Lady of dry deserts and barren wombs,
Ortho-psychic in wondrous vias
(Reading her [he] art, the gargantuan feeder,
Insouciant breeder, was as a
Votary, her exceptional friend, so
Every pain belong her-belong him, and
Rode a budding Bodhi burr a tiempo to tun-
A) BLOOMED like herb cactus, plush and prickly.
EDITH "LA MOME" PIAF
Every time she sang, people stopped: their work, their worries, their
Disappointments, their meals, and gave her their ears. O,
In Paris, she was a little throbbing sparrow with a huge voice
That crooned, "I am singing about you--this place and this
How did such a tiny vessel ring with such a full tone?
"La Mome" knew their hearts, knew their souls, carried their torch,
And all who heard her caught the flame that seared them.
Many would start, clasp their hands, and gaze at the enchantress
Out of whose mouoth their mysteries and secrets were revealed.
Many, listening alone to a radio, would feel their lips quiver, sense
Each tear that trickled down their cheeks, sigh and
Peek out a window at the City of Lights, city of art, city of
Iniquities, city of falling empire, city of humiliation.
As she sang "No, Je Ne Regrette Rien," all the denizens knew she knew
Full well their strengths and weaknesses and loved them despite their
Kindred spirit to Artemisia and Frida was Kate, who battled men in a
As if she could play the patriarchal game, when all the while she
Torments of the specially gifted dirrently to see the illusions of
the world as she
Eluded the stereotypes of wife and mother, although she was both, and
Created her truer world of Creole and Cajun denizens of real desires
Hopes of all places and all times. She wrote so people could
Only they would read and learn how women yearn to be another unique
Person, just that and nothing more, a flesh and blood and nerve and
Individually wrapped, but sensing the universe and all its
No more nor less than any other homo sapiens that ever trod the
Jerry Blanton, Homestead, Florida