1 Even my hat mocks me
3 on the inside of my grief –
4 My twisted mouth
5 and gnashing teeth,
6 my fingers fat and clumsy
7 as if they were still wearing
8 those gloves –
9 the bloodstained ones you keep.
10 What has happened
11 to the pupils
12 of my eyes, Picasso?
13 Why do I deserve
14 such deformity?
15 What am I now
16 if not a cross between
17 a clown and a broken
18 piece of crockery?
1 But I am famous.
2 People recognise me
3 despite my fractures.
4 I'm no Mona Lisa
5 (how I'd like to wipe
6 the smugness from her face
7 that still captivates.)
8 Doesn't she know that art, great art,
9 needn't be an oil-painting?
10 I am a magnet
11 not devoid of beauty.
12 I am an icon
13 of twentieth-century grief.
14 A symbol
15 of compositional possibilities
16 My tears are tears of happiness –
17 big rolling diamonds.
1 Lies tricks transformations
1 Picasso, I want my face back
2 the unbroken photography of it
3 Once I lived to be stroked
4 by the fingers of your brushes
5 Now I see I was more an accomplice
6 to my own unrooting
7 Watching the pundits gaze
8 open-mouthed at your masterpieces
9 While I hovered like a battered muse
10 my private grief made public
1 Dora, Theodora, be reasonable, if it weren't for Picasso
2 you'd hardly be remembered at all.
3 He's given you an unbelievable shelf-life.
4 Yes, but who will remember the fruits of my own life?
5 I am no moth flitting around his wick.
6 He might be a genius but he's also a prick –
7 Medusa, Cleopatra, help me find my inner bitch,
8 wasn't I christened Henriette Theodora Markovitch?
9 Picasso, I want my face back
10 the unbroken geography of it.
1 My camera my one-eye