Where’s Polonius? — And ‘Trixie’

CLAUDIUS: Now, Hamlet, where’s Polonius?

HAMLET: At supper.

Hamlet, Act IV, Scene 3

Yeah, I sometimes talk in a roundabout way, too, but I almost always prefer to say things in the simplest, most straightforward way possible. First, because that’s in keeping with the whole minimalist and unaffected Gwen John kind of approach to entertainment and art that I like. Second, because I am almost always trying to make people smile and people are more likely to smile if they understand what I’m saying.

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Today’s post will complete a set.

Last week Friday’s post was the long, roundabout version of today’s post:

    Rocks And Mirrors: Scenes That Never Return


Yesterday’s post explained how I got from today’s post to last Friday’s post:

    Where’s Polonius? — And Jasper Johns


Today’s post is the original idea, the short, direct, initial imperative/initial response poem that I wrote last Thursday.

There were at least four personal reasons why I didn’t post this version last Friday. All those reasons still nag at me, but I’ve thought of a reasonably silly thing that kinda/sorta touches on all my concerns in one way or another.

And in my mind silly always wins.

Wednesday morning it occurred to me that if I just changed the name of the person I was writing about to a replacement name that I picked carefully, then I could go ahead and post this with something of the affection and humor I’d intended when I wrote it.

So here we go:

 
Rocks and Mirrors
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .


My friend Trixie is a kaleidoscope.

She has rocks in her head. They’re beautiful

rocks, always tumbling, and when they reflect

off the fragmented mirrors of her self

they make beautiful, hypnotic patterns.


My friend Trixie is a kaleidoscope.

She doesn’t lie. She doesn’t tell the truth.

She is rocks and mirrors making patterns

that beguile and completely befuddle

anybody who gazes into her.