The BlueIris Semi-Nightly Poetry Break, 4/5/08

[BlueIris]

"A Personal History of Hands"

Spatulate is the word Glamour Magazine uses
for fingers like these, a sign
of artistic genius and creative
inspiration.

When I was 16 I knew I was ugly,
but I had beautiful hands.
The nails grew into shape,
white moons rose out of soft pink beds
under a scattering of tiny stars
like the stars on the most beautiful apples.

For a while I was a hand model, let strangers
paint my nails flamingo pink and rose flambé,
deck me out in jewlery I would never wear
let alone afford. I had fantasies
of men who would love me just for my hands,
of the mother who had given me up
for adoption, seeing a picture
of my hands in a catalogue
and recognizing them as her own.

She'd be sorry. She'd look me up.
She'd be beautiful and kind.
A little lonely.
We'd see movies together.
We'd visit palm readers,
where we'd learn how to love
our hands for the way they unfold
into maps of what we're born with
and what we make for ourselves.

—Lori Jakiela

[RetroLounge]

1. Woah...

That's good. Thanks!

RL

[BlueIris]

2. Yeah, isn't this a fun one?

:-)

[CaliforniaPeggy]

3. My dear BlueIris!

How lovely, how very evocative!

What a delicious fantasy...

Thank you!

[ThomCat]

4. :(

I get an image of a very sad person who is hoping for a magical cure for sadness, and that cure is going to come becaue of her one admirable characteristic, her hands. It's interesting how people find ways to hate themselves, and then invest their hopes and fantasies is one particular aspect of themselves.

There is some interesting psychology in this poem.

[BlueIris]

5. Oh, man. As usual, your comment is almost better than the poem itself!

Everyone, copy off ThomCat's paper.

[BlueIris]

6. Kick.