by Holly Jahangiri | Apr 6, 2025
I asked my mother, once, why some of us found circus clowns disturbing or scary. Objectively, I know that they are there to make the audience laugh and to bring joy. But count me among those who see Pennywise in every clown. Well, except maybe the beloved Buttons (played by James Stewart) in The Greatest Show on Earth. Ironically, the only clown that ever felt kind and safe to me was a fugitive accused of killing his wife. An act of kindness, in his case, but still – a fugitive. My mother thought long and hard, admitting that clowns made her uncomfortable, as well. Her theory was that we were just too empathetic to enjoy an act designed to make us laugh at “freaks,” even if the clowns were just wearing makeup and costumes.
For a while, when I was about 8, I had a recurring dream about an evil clown at a desert motel. Later, when Stephen King introduced us to Pennywise, I could hardly breathe. It was as if he had somehow tapped into a childhood nightmare and brought it to life. When my parents first told me about Circus-Circus in Las Vegas, I refused to go – it sounded just like the place from my dream. It wasn’t – we visited the hotel, many years ago, and it was not the place. In my 30s, I found the place – on the internet. I had never heard of it, have never visited, and I have no intention – ever – of doing so. If you ever go to the Tonopah Clown Motel in Nevada, don’t say I didn’t warn you. Honestly? The motel just looks colorful and kitschy. But the cemetery is another matter entirely and looks exactly the way I dreamed it 55 years ago.
Fun House
Which is normal: to recoil in horror at the sight
of circus clowns, or laugh? They work so hard;
our laughter is hard-won and smells of cotton
candy, peanuts, popcorn - elephant farts -
masking the faint scent of terror, sweat,
denim damp with urine. Is it the bulbous red
whiskey nose, the clown-white, death-pale zinc,
or the red-rimmed mouth, hinting blood
beneath the big top, full of grinning cannibals,
that makes the tiger kitties with their razor
claws and teeth look tame
that makes the flaming hoop a portal
where an us-sized box is neither coffin,
crematorium, nor abbatoir...
but the illusion of escape
by Holly Jahangiri | Apr 5, 2025
What would the dead write of us, if they could still pen a poem? What would they tell us, if they could offer advice after death? Why do we view death, or ghosts, as “scary”? Wouldn’t our ancestors wish us well, assuming they did so during life? And even if they didn’t, surely now they would be free to pursue other interests rather than sticking around to make our lives miserable.
Encomium to the Living
After RG Evans
From six feet under, we salute you, you
who tread the ground above, toes wet with dew
behind a mausoleum, there to steal
a kiss. Such “crimes” we happily conceal.
Perhaps you sense us stirring underfoot –
don’t be afraid. It is our joy to put
aside despairing sighs of death to hear
your sighs of pleasure, life, and love so near.
Now rest against our gray and lichened stones
wrapped tight in one another’s muscled bones.
Regale us with adventures that you’ve planned
to sing us back to sleep, here in the sand.
Remember us, now tucked within a shroud—
we long to hear you live your lives out loud.
by Holly Jahangiri | Apr 4, 2025
Today’s PAD prompt was to write about “an unexpected mess.” I experience unexpected neatness, now and then, but have no idea what is this “unexpected mess” whereof you speak…
Detritus at Dawn
I learned of black holes from an early age:
My mother swore her neatness was a sleight of hand,
a trick involving rakes and Hefty bags
that in unseemly haste were shoved atop
a mound of mismatched shoes, our dirty clothes,
behind the winter furs, the musty suits,
an ancient travel case—and yet I knew
the woman was a witch. I never found
black plastic bags, leaf-rakes, or detritus.
Neat rows of high-heeled shoes, a make-up bag,
a pearl-handled, empty-barreled gun,
a hundred matchbook souvenirs, and suits—
matched smartly with an endless set of ties
(worn once) I'd given Dad for Father's Day.
That's when I knew the brutal truth, of junk
she'd rounded up and made to disappear.
Can't say now, was it awe I felt, or fear,
When contemplating closets through the years?
by Holly Jahangiri | Apr 3, 2025
Just a little something that dripped from my pen before doing Wordle at 12:01 AM.
The mental prompt for this, a phrase that sprang to mind shortly after succumbing to the need for sleep: “a country that has lost its minds and hearts.”
Cardio at Midnight
Sweat-soaked, shaking
from a half-remembered dream:
a frantic quest for keys
clutched in a bloody fist,
for glasses worn atop
a severed head, and for
a barely beating heart,
devoid of hope
but full of dread.
They say, “Sleep on it,” but sometimes it’s good not to do that. Did I have nightmares last night? No. Will you, now?
by Holly Jahangiri | Apr 2, 2025
I had every intention of titling this month’s poems in alphabetical order, but best laid plans, eh? I started off thinking about “beauty.” Good “B” word, right? And then one of my grandfather’s aphorisms sprang to mind: “Pretty is as pretty does.” This poem sprang from that and a conversation about the hypocrisy of certain “good Christians” and politicians and how there’s a psychological term for their particular, self-loathing brand of judgmental hypocrisy. “Pretty” isn’t it. Nor is “beauty.” But with any luck, you’ll follow the mental processes to see how we got here from there.
Reaction Formation (an Acrostic)
Righteous in hypocrisy, they think to
exculpate themselves,
accusing others of their flaws, defining
crimes where none exist
trying to deflect self-loathing
images held dear, judging, demonizing
others in their zeal, their quest: to
nullify the hatred turned within.
Fathers, mothers - stand
outside the need to make a tiny
replica, to form of nascent clay a
man or woman in your image. Only God’s
allowed that power —
that perfection you’ve dared judge
immoral, turned a well-honed weapon
on itself. Devoid of love, the world can
never make itself anew.
