When Strangers Clap (And I am Naked) -poetry series #2

When strangers clap I don't know how to be, how to sit with this. Because I am writing my soul and they see my nakedness and

they clap.

Why are they clapping? Is it a pity clap? Does my nakedness impress them? Are they frightened of my hair and

skin and fat? 

I tell myself I don't care. I tell myself I am naked for my own sake. I am naked to be free and full and alive.

When strangers clap I get a thrill that I feel down deep in the pit of my stomach, in my bones, on top of every tiny goosebump. I also

got goosebumps sitting in the dark in November three years ago watching as my nation chose a clown. An orange clown. That, too, was thrilling, deep down to my stomach bones but

not in a good way. Do the clappers see me as a clown? A fraud? Do I see myself thus? Standing naked and raw

in the mirror, I ask myself Who Am I? And I define myself with my pen and paper and I wonder if the mirror speaks true. I wonder if these claps

are applause or slaps and

I shriek eeeeeeeeeee because I barely know how to be alone in the dark confines of my skull and I find myself standing on a high hill in the wide open bright sunshine, naked and alone and all my imperfections on display and this is what I wanted, this is what I worked so hard for,

isn't it?

At the end of the day week month year time immemorial will I remember claps from strangers who see me naked but don't know a single thing about the insides of me?

How can they when I've been too afraid to look beyond my own nakedness; afraid to discover my bones are corrupt? Will I ever feel at home with these strangers' hands

clap slap clapping all over my naked soul?

 Will the thrill wear off so that I must remove my hair and skin and fat and gore until I remain a gleaming pile of bones? I want

to don my clown suit. I want to dig a hole and lie down in the dirt. I want the rain to come and the dirt to turn to mud and I can live like a mud man wearing mud clothes and clown shoes and never caring, never hungry. I'll just eat mud. But

the sun shines and the mud dries and cracks and flakes off. The rain comes again washing, exposing. 

And there is pen and paper and the mud is gone and I am hungry. The exposing rains have filled the hole I dug and it is a pond. A shiny reflective pond and

I write. And I see myself naked and glorious reflected in my mud pond. 

I am not a clown. There are no hideous shoes on my feet worthy of ridicule and distraction by design. The sun dried and cracked my mud cover and the rain has washed me clean. My pen

has once again bared my soul and my nakedness shines in the reflecting pool and I hear

clap

clap

clapping.

•─────⋅☾JonicaBradley ☽⋅─────•

This was the second story I wrote for public consumption and for a bit of recognition and money. I was writing on Medium where, at that time, claps counted for payment. The first piece I wrote got claps. It scared the shit out of me! The above poem was the result of me channeling my fear into writing. I had not intended to write a poem. It just sort of sprang out from the tip of my pen that way. I was handwriting in a notebook, in the morning, outside on our back deck.

This poem really needs to be read out loud. Someday I hope to be able to figure out how to embed sound files so you can hear me read them.

If you know how to do this, please let me know in the comments.

•─────⋅☾JonicaBradley ☽⋅─────•

Lead image photo by Jonica Bradley "Sunrise on HX"

All other photos license-free images from Unsplash

This poem originally appeared on Medium, September 2019

•─────⋅☾JonicaBradley ☽⋅─────•

This post dedicated to @CryptoBabe who asked for it and @VoluntaryJapan who inspired me to publish my poetry here.