Judy Wells Poet

Berkeley, CA
jwellspoet@att.net

Little Lulu Talks With Vincent Van Gogh, 2007 & 2009

LITTLE LULU TALKS

WITH FRIDA KAHLO

“Little Lulu,” said Frida Kahlo.

“You need an extreme makeover.

Those skinny legs need covering up!

“Why don’t you try a Tehuana outfit like me.

You need a long, purple velvet skirt

with a white cotton ruffle at the hem.

“You need a red silk blouse

like the one I wore for my self-portrait

for my lover, Leon Trotsky.

You need a salmon shawl with long flowing fringe.

“Change your hair, Little Lulu.

Get rid of that silly cap.

Here, I will braid your locks

with hanks of red and purple yarn.

I will set fresh gardenias in your locks.

“And you will be a Queen,

Little Lulu, a Queen

with turquoise rings on every finger

and bells on your bright red leather boots

“But Frida,” said Little Lulu,

“with all that weight of velvet skirt,

turquoise jewelry, bells and locks,

I won’t be able to walk!”

“That’s not the point,” said Frida.

“The point is to be remembered

when you stand in a doorway

between two white curtains.

“The point is to be immortal

like a goddess, like a great earth mother.

The point is to be like me!

FRIDA!

my Lulu,

my Lulacha,

mi muchacha,

my Lulita,

me, me, me!”

LITTLE LULU

TALKS WITH

SYLVIA PLATH

“Your blond pageboy is magnificent!”

said Little Lulu.

“How’d you get your hair to turn under like that?”

“Giant rollers,” said Sylvia. “Every night.

Doesn’t impress a guy much though

after you marry one. I don’t recommend it.

You’ll never get any sleep.”

“I like your name,” said Little Lulu.

“Sylvia, silver, sylvan sylph!”

“Your poetry is pedestrian,” said Sylvia.

“Get a new dictionary before you try out

any more of your pap on me!”

“Can you give me any more writing tips?”

“Have a baby.

Wake before dawn.

Be half-crazed.

Scribble down brilliant metaphors.

Feel at age 30

you’ll never be able to top yourself.

Die by your own hand of despair.”

Little Lulu sighs.

“Plath rhymes with wrath.

Can you tell me where

Gertrude Stein lives?”

LITTLE LULU TALKS

WITH VINCENT VAN GOGH

“This blasted life of art

is shattering,” said Vincent.

“Why, Vincent,” said Little Lulu.

“You’re destroying my concept of you.

I thought you lived to create.”

“I have lived,” said Vincent,

“without a Little Lulu.

I have lived with a shrew,

a prostitute I rescued

from the streets in the winter,

pregnant with a little boy.

I loved that little boy

and his frail sister

too, but in the end

I had to choose:

The Woman or Art.

“You know what I chose.

Do you see that deep rose

aura around my head

in my self-portrait in Paris?

I was no saint

but I felt I was touched

with eternity at times.

Was Art my God?

“Who can say?

That other self-portrait

with my Japanese eyes

and my near bare skull

makes me look like a criminal.

Perhaps I was.

Perhaps I am.

Tell me, Little Lulu,

are you afraid of criminals

or saints?”

“To a high degree,” said Little Lulu.

“I probably would have

run from you on the streets

of Paris with your red, red beard

and your wild, wild eyes.

But if you had gone down

on your knees and begged,

I might have posed for you

in my starched red dress.

Would you have distorted

my ringlets with wilder

and wilder curlicues?

Would you have given

me an aura of bright

red streaks around my head?”

“I would have laid you down

on the red coverlet on my bed

in Arles,” said Vincent.

“Posed you like Manet’s

Olympia in the nude,

in little red high heeled shoes

with a pompom on the front.

I would have given

you bouquets of blue irises,

sprays of almond blossoms,

and a huge sun flower

rich with seeds

for your bower.”

“Oh,” said Little Lulu.

“Oh, oh!

All these suitors—

First T.S. Eliot, then St. Augustine,

and now you!

Even Sor Juana de la Cruz

offered me a kiss.

Can you offer me bliss,

Vincent?

Can you offer me

a home, fresh milk,

apples, almonds, and

rich, hot chocolate?

“Will you not drink

23 cups of coffee

in a scant four days

when I’m around,

refrain from absinthe,

and cutting off body parts?

I’ve no heart for madness,

but I’d live inside

your paintings—

your church at Auvers

with its cobalt blue sky,

or in a hotel on your river

that starry night.”

“Gracious child of the 20^th century,”

said Vincent.

“Caricature of womanhood

much worse than my

potato eater peasants!

What a couple

we could have been

if I hadn’t blasted myself

in that cornfield.

“I am shattered, Little Lulu.

Your outline is still intact.

Walk back into your

American comic book world

and play with your friends

in your clubhouse.

Make love with Tubby

while you still have time.

I’m heading for eternity.”

Website designed by Jannie M. Dresser.

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Berkeley, CA
jwellspoet@att.net