Sunday, April 10, 2011

I Wanted to be Cher

Those of my generation will recall watching The Sonny & Cher Comedy Hour later just called The Sonny & Cher Show (1971 - 1977). Man how I loved that show. As a little girl I loved Cher. I had a Cher doll. My Cher doll had glamorous doll clothes. I wanted to be Cher. She was so cool.

Delighted to find this poem...once again courtesy of the Writers Almanac/ Once again...its National Poetry Month people...this is why I am posting poems all month case you were wondering. This is not a poetry blog, but I am taking this annual opportunity to post some great poems. Funny, or fun, or beautiful. Mostly about travel. And life and love. Try them out. Check out blog entries since April 1 to read the poems. And please, you gotta read this one about Cher. Maybe you remember...maybe you can relate.

Happy Sunday. May you have fun remembering these kinds of moments from your childhood.

by Dorianne Laux

I wanted to be Cher, tall
as a glass of iced tea,
her bony shoulders draped
with a curtain of dark hair
that plunged straight down,
the cut tips brushing
her nonexistent butt.
I wanted to wear a lantern
for a hat, a cabbage, a piƱata
and walk in thigh-high boots
with six-inch heels that buttoned
up the back. I wanted her
rouged cheek bones and her
throaty panache, her voice
of gravel and clover, the hokum
of her clothes: black fishnet
and pink pom-poms, fringed bells
and her thin strip of a waist
with the bullet-hole navel.
Cher standing with her skinny arm
slung around Sonny's thick neck,
posing in front of the Eiffel Tower,
The Leaning Tower of Pisa,
The Great Wall of China,
The Crumbling Pyramids, smiling
for the camera with her crooked
teeth, hit-and-miss beauty, the sun
bouncing off the bump on her nose.
Give me back the old Cher,
the gangly, imperfect girl
before the shaving knife
took her, before they shoved
pillows in her tits, injected
the lumpy gel into her lips.
Take me back to the woman
I wanted to be, stalwart
and silly, smart as her lion
tamer's whip, my body a torch
stretched the length of the polished
piano, legs bent at the knee, hair
cascading down over Sonny's blunt
fingers as he pummeled the keys,
singing in a sloppy alto
the oldest, saddest songs.

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