Thursday, January 6, 2011

May's Sultry New Look -- Doll Makeover

Just the other evening May sidled up to me and said, “Psst! Psst! You with the needle and thread!  Don’t you think it’s about time I enjoyed un petit revamp de maquillage, ma cherie?  I must also have a spot of bling and LOSE that wretched damn brown beret with the funky Bakelite; it is way too poco for the rakish slouch I prefer and the color is just about as off as a week-old porkchop; I must have un Nuevo Chapeau.  And whilst I still believe, a la Ferlinghetti, that poetry must not be the underwear of the soul, really, a bit of an amp-up will increase my boudoir appeal, which is what I am, A Boudoir Doll, get it toots?”  With that, what could I do but comply, and provide a bit of a touch up to improve her sultry appeal, a new fine black velvet beret salvaged from a little designer label number sussed out at Value Village, some ear-bobs, and a brooch.  She’s still quite her own person, only more so, if you know what I mean.  She yearns for a satin cushion in a boudoir, would even share her brooch with you on occasion, but take my advice, you should cut off the Miss Piggy re-runs.  Enjoy for yourself the before and after, and see if May went over the top (as if she’d care a fig).  Well, as before, she will come to you with a copy of May Sarton’s poem, “Now I Become Myself,” which is what she is, and the old designer label, as well.  A good hat should have provenance.  

Before she got fed up with the hat and all.

So, now May is off to Etsy to try her luck and locating that boudoir to haunt, er, ornament.  And she is feeling much more confident, what with the makeover and all.

The fine poetry of May Sarton is written under her skirts, and the reference to Ferlinghetti is a reminder of his poem , "Underwear," which contains one of my favorite lines of poetry, "there can be no revolution while poetry is the underwear of the soul."

May Sarton's poem that made the inspiration for this doll is this:

"Now I become myself. It's taken
Time, many years and places;
I have been dissolved and shaken,
Worn other people's faces,
Run madly, as if Time were there,
Terribly old, crying a warning,
"Hurry, you will be dead before—"
(What? Before you reach the morning?
Or the end of the poem is clear?
Or love safe in the walled city?)
Now to stand still, to be here,
Feel my own weight and density!
The black shadow on the paper
Is my hand; the shadow of a word
As thought shapes the shaper
Falls heavy on the page, is heard.
All fuses now, falls into place
From wish to action, word to silence,
My work, my love, my time, my face
Gathered into one intense
Gesture of growing like a plant.
As slowly as the ripening fruit
Fertile, detached, and always spent,
Falls but does not exhaust the root,
So all the poem is, can give,
Grows in me to become the song,
Made so and rooted by love.
Now there is time and Time is young.
O, in this single hour I live
All of myself and do not move.
I, the pursued, who madly ran,
Stand still, stand still, and stop the sun!"

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