Is She A Clown? Poem by June Walker

I look at her short black bobbed hairstyle,
her pale Geisha face,
her loose tunic with large buttons-
Andy Pandy style-
in a row down the front,
tight kaleidoscopic leggings,
like Pierrette.
She looks like a circus clown.

As if to confirm my opinion, she says,
holding up a picture of
the centre of the universe,
i.e., a mirror in a picture frame,
‘I like to do jokey sort of art.'
Is it the veil of illusion
she loves to create?
Is the appeal simply to
her child-like heart?

‘I am a painter, ' she says with as
much force as she can muster
with those thin dark red lips.
‘I am a painter, ' she says again.
And I don't know whether to admire
her confidence,
or whether to suspect
that she is saying it to convince herself,
or even more so, to convince us…

Then I decide…its admirable
to state what you are…
you may predict your own fate.
So what should I say?
I am a scholar? Too restrictive.
I am a philosopher? Too impractical.


I know…
I am a painter too.