I have always identified with the jester.
A kind of accidental quester.
A fuddley, ‘no-fit’, kind of fool,
Who, while not born to carry ‘cool’,
Constantly gets lost in wonder
At her every bump and blunder.
When is it she will actually be
The kind of grown-up others seem to want to see!?
To me it seems illogical to try and maintain
A solid persona in this type of terrain!
No rights, no wrongs, just constant queries,
Thought processes that would make most weary.
Dodging and dancing, pretty much daily,
Tripping herself up, then laughing gaily
“Oh what a fool am I!”
But, then, she’s often treated in ways that really make me cry.
Like every other clown, in life, soon learns,
There are always ‘others’ that see the burns.
The scars from ‘bumps’, that she wears proudly,
In their, voiced opinion, far too loudly.
In innocence she exposes those who seem to enjoy the ‘twist’.
Delighted by her ‘weaknesses’, they try and enlist
the support of the crowd, as they scream
Then, as she clumsily regains her composure,
“Ha-ha, look at you! Naked! For all the world to see!”
Internally, they smugly crow “Thank Christ that isn’t me.”
Thank goodness for the kinder folk
Who almost get the cosmic joke
Who witness her, practically constant, messes,
And let her know, gently, the reasons, they see, for her lack of successes.
I warm to those that don’t throw stones,
Who seem to care about her bones,
Who make her cups of steaming tea,
Commend her on her honesty.
I see, though, they cannot really gauge
Just why she chooses to take the stage.
Successes do not really matter
When you live in the now and are mad as a hatter!
When that jester shakes her bells,
It shatters other’s hardened shells,
Makes it alright to bruise your knees,
Never thinking of trying to please.
So many times I process her hurt
And turn that into wholesome dirt
And from that grows all kinds of flowers,
through which she bimbles, between the showers.
No point in sharing shiny joy
With those who think that she’s just a toy.
At times I’ve lost the plot completely
Which brings me, neatly,
To. My. Point.
Instinct has taught us how to fall.
We’ve learned so much about it all.
While others see that hopeless jester,
That honest fool, that hopeless quester,
We only see a human ocean,
That’s constantly in tidal motion.
She and I are learning, now, to float,
No rubber ring nor crafted boat.
Buoyant based on a real ability
To float about, let it go, just feeling FREE.
She is no conscious, agenda holding, trickster,
I love my jester and have no need to fix her.
Kat Robertson (A performance poem. March 2017)