Scarecrow Poem by Barima Basoah

Arts make the world beautiful.
Women faces are now canvases,
being the artists and the art works themselves,
terrible at doing for self, good at doing for others,
to replicate a fellow they consider beautiful.

Concealer to cover up skin imperfections,
foundation to rub the face to build a new look,
they dap on the face powders of different colors.
A lie to live, they hide their true color,
only a makeup to cover their imperfections.

Curl their lashes to wake up their face,
but rather put them to walking asleep.
Smudge of mascara and lines of shadow,
to make eyes pop for a dewy eye look,
rather have monstrous face.

Contour on the nose, shining on the cheeks,
blood on the lips for caution.
I see million faces of light,
like disco lights; lasers, UV and starcloths,
and I could only think of a switch for disco.

They dress to expose enticing parts of their bodies,
with clothes, some tight and others flying like flag,
walk on high-inch heels like weak zombies,
appealing to appalling they create,
Caricatures everywhere for scarecrow festival.



From the collection: HUMANS