It’s one of those artsy-smartsy days. I love this poem; thanks for sending, pai pai.
The daffodils can go fuck themselves.
I’m tired of their crowds, yellow ranting
about the spastic sun that dines and shines
and shines. How are they any different
from me? I, too, have a big messy head
on a fragile stalk. I spin with the wind.
I flower and don’t apologize. There’s nothing
funny about good weather. O, spring again,
The critics nod. They know the old joy,
that wakeful quotidian, the dark plot
of future growing things, each one
labeled Narcissus nobilis or Jennifer Chang.
If I died falling from a helicopter, then
this would be an important poem. Then
the ex-boyfriends would swim to shore
declaiming their knowledge of my bulbous
youth. O, Flower, one said, why aren’t you
meat? But I won’t be another bashful shank.
The tulips have their nervous joie-de-vivre,
the lilacs their taunt. Fractious petals, stop
interrupting my poem with boring beauty.
All the boys are in the field gnawing raw
bones of ambition and calling it ardor. Who
the hell are they? This is a poem about war.
–Jennifer Chang (in The Nation)
I was so inspired that I tried to do a self-portrait in the oil pastels that I got at Christmas this last year. But I really don’t know how to use them and I’m not sure how to draw from photographs, so my picture turned out looking like an indigenous woman, according to Q. Better luck next time maybe?
|“She’s a native American!”|
|Detail on the face.|