FRIDA KAHLO Is The Subject Of The New Poem

Frida Kahlo is an intriguing character. Full of contradictions. Strength and weakness, passionate and cold, critical and encouraging, introverted and extroverted, aware of her talent and insecure in it. Perhaps it these most human of qualitites that make Kahlo, the person, so fascinating and easy to relate to. The art speaks for itself. Life and art often merge and in Frida's case, each brushstroke can be described with same word as the story of her life - striking.

"Frida Kahlo: Dolor Constante, Búsqueda Constante" creates snapshots (a nod to her father) of her history intermingled with references to her art, family and troubles. Hopefully the complex beauty of the artist and her work can be glimpsed at within this poem.

Frida Kahlo: Dolor Constante, Búsqueda Constante

A Poem By Simon Clark

“They amputated my leg six months ago, they have given me centuries of torture and at moments I almost lost my reason. I keep on wanting to kill myself. Diego is what keeps me from it, through my vain idea that he would miss me…but never in my life have I suffered more. I will wait awhile…”

– Frida Kahlo (diary entry from February 1954)

Ding! Ding! CRASH!

Even polio didn’t feel that bad,

This wounded deer is trapped,

Locked inside the body she wished she never had,

But look at her…look at her and see,

Everything is never quite in the order it’s meant to be,

Confessional images exposing the truth,

Not asking for answers in unanswered prayers,

Her collected ex-voto showing who cares,

Postcolonial hate and the pill bottle of joy,

A Mexican myth, her own Helen of Troy.

Touch! Touch! SMASH!

She knew all the lovers Diego had,

Hair cut, energy sapped,

Drained in a marriage that only made her feel sad,

Just look at him…look at him and see,

Painted out of the box; from his dismissal couldn’t be free,

‘Monumentos históricos’, all in the proof,

Sought safety in passion despite all the stares,

She made lovers of women, men and the pairs,

Communist Mexican diva fluttered eyes so coy,

The gift of her glare on canvas she’d deploy.

Tone! Tone! SPLASH!

Amazing which segments made her feel glad,

Thorn necklace never snapped,

Niña in the death mask as though photo’d by Dad,

Oh look at Dad…look at Dad and see,

Both of those two Frida’s confronting all the aspects of ‘she’,

47! Finished! The last slate on the roof!

Brush strokes didn’t flow. Her art needed repairs,

Black jaguar staring; everyone prepares,

Do you think Frida knew? Do you think it would annoy?

Drift by Mexico’s gift shop pin-up; convoy.

Bone! Bone! ASH!

Frida died,

Bone! Bone! ASH

I wonder if she’s still in constant pain,

Bone! Bone! ASH!

I wonder if she’s constantly searching,

Bone! Bone! ASH!

I guess she couldn’t wait awhile…