Mother Houdini (poem) by Julianza (Julie) Kim Shavin on AuthorsDen

Mother Houdini
by Julianza (Julie) Kim Shavin → (All Poetry by Julianza (Julie) Kim Shavin)
Rated "PG" by the Author.

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Portrait of the Artist as a Fake by Julianza Shavin Yes, i've been told. Time to get off the subject of mother. IS THAT EVEN POSSIBLE??? After reworking the ending about 50 times, with lines like "confounding canvas" and "palimpsest of pine," I have finally given up and in sheer desperation of not wanting to see this thing again, am putting it out there for criticism. I was corrected this weekend. The thing I'm looking for is not negative feedback; it is constructive criticism. Whatever. To use Gene's word, feel free to be brutal. Given two years, I might get this one right, since basically Mother Houdini is really Gepetto, and there's not even a fish in sight!

MOTHER HOUDINI My mother was an interior designer And I, her tour de force. She was a wizard, that woman, scissoring colored plastic sheets into triangles when I was very young, layering all upon high windows spanning an entire wall. The sun came in rainbows, and I fell in love with light. Painting cardboard from crated peaches, she affixed dozens to the front door, making of it some hundred-breasted creature whose nature you wouldn't know but for the faintly fruity smell. Of a humble chest of drawers she made a sea-green wonder, mingling gold acrylic to produce an “antique.” Drab metal shelves became prisms of functionality embracing beloved books like generations of children. Soon, others hired the diva of disguise, who glued wild fabric instead of wallpaper on dreary walls, made enormous rooms cozy and tiny ones expansive, with optical illusion. And then, one day, she went to work on me. I was, unfortuitously, plain and tall. “Use liner and mascara! give yourself some eyes!” Rouge those cheeks and look alive! Lipstick will define the smile (smile?) and for heaven's sakes those hips! -- off with the pleats!” She instructed in masking so many deficits: bunch nylons into brassieres, wear long shirts to hide the thighs and paradoxically, don only the shortest of skirts to produce long legs. There were relentless years of neutral colors, to diminish olive skin, shoulder pads to feminize, turtlenecks to bisect the maddening Modigliani neck. Camouflage here! Compensate there! As time went on, interior design fell away, at least in terms of houses; the challenges were just too great with me. A full-time job was I, with no vacation pay. Oh, illusionist extreme, fakir of the false! How you smoothed, painted, and varnished me, though I remain, for the most part, uncouth -- Those voices -- they bellow my hollow bones so! Is it a wonder I'm unable to tell a truth? Copyright Julianza Shavin

Reviewed by Jon Willey

Reviewed on November 8, 2008

the creative passion of a master of illusion, is in the disillusionment that pours forth from the epicenter of the one creating the illusion! -- do you truly mean "fakir of the false"? I have a concept of your intent if you do --- or did you mean, "faker of the fake", for which I have another concept of your intent -- disillusionment runs deep in the core of this piece -- self perception perhaps gently rolling in the illusions created? -- let the poem stand as is, on the merits it already has -- over analysis will eventually ruin a good thing with over aggressive second guessing -- peace to you dear lady -- with the olive skin? -- JMW

Reviewed by Karla Dorman, The StormSpinner

Reviewed on November 6, 2008

Julianza,

How dare they tell you to get off the subject of Mother. Obviously, she was a very important figure in your life, or you would not pen her so beautifully, so lovingly. Mine's been gone 18 years: how I miss her, still. Well done.

(((HUGS))) and love, Karla.

Reviewed by Lloyd Lofthouse

Reviewed on November 5, 2008

Great tribute to your mother. I thank Gene for pointing me in your direction. As for constructive criticism (something small an unimportant): I suggest breaking the poem into stanzas. As I was reading, my mind was doing it for me. There were natural places to open up some white space and take a breath where I wanted to stop and contemplate what I had just finished before moving on. My favorite beginning spot to stop and think was: "And then one day, she went to work on me."

What I mean is that the wind shifted, and I felt I was privy to golden moments between mother and daughter--the kinds of moments that all children and parents should experience and cherish.

I hope I'm making sense.

Reviewed by Flying Fox Ted L Glines (Reader)

I agree with Gene except I like "wizardess" (a unisex world would bore me to death). I think I would have liked and appreciated your mom; sounds like she was adept at turning hovels into palaces. Except for a typo here and there, nothing needs changing. As they say on the streets, "Study long, you study wrong." I like this poem very much.

Ted

Reviewed by Gene Williamson

Reviewed on November 4, 2008

Julie... Is wizardess a word? If so, why? Why not use just wizard?
I don't like wizardess any more than I like poetess. -- I think there should be a period after "antique" -- then there's this line:
the shortest of skirts to produce to long legs... Change to to too?
Ok, now, was that brutal enough? Actually, Julianza, I like this a
lot. A number of wonderful lines. The makeover of Ms Shavin... smoothed, painted, and varnished...who knocks me out. -gene.