The Cobalt Blues of Frida Kahlo's
As deflated Ireland sinks
Numbed and shrunken
By a Hawkish summer
Dancing the frigid dance of drear
That has, for so long...been her lot....
I gaze into the cobalt blue of Frida Kahlo’s house
I long for solar heat and light
.....the passions of Latino lands.
But who shall take me there ?
I have no money now. I am spent.
My home ..a wild and weary thing
Clangs in on me..wind and weed
Demanding ..more and more
It is never silent...never still.
Some days I love my house.
But then Athena ...where is my Mexico ?
My cobalt blue..
My red rimmed windows ...with their grids of green ?
How can my grey compare
To ochre walls and terracotta pots
Which humming in the sunshine
Become a gifted riot to the eyes
A fever to the refrigerated brain...
And Frida reaches out
A monkey here and there..
Flowers in her hair...
...she paints flowers ...so they may not die...
She sings to me..she weeps ..
Diego’s gone..
Her voice a little cry ...
Before she battles on ...
Wrapped in the beauty...the skins of Mexico
The shawls of Hungary...
Her face... born on her mother’s bed
White pillow case laced in pink..
And in another room
Cut hair..upon the floor and scissors in her hand.
The house of birth and death... Hot from the sun ... Casa Azul.
Kristine Byrne...23 rd Aug...2012.