Put It All Down - A Place for Your Feelings

[Dee]

Good lord, Mz S. What kind of marvellous challenge have you just given us? I've read this poem now about a dozen times and also read Mz K's superb analysis, and I feel I'm still just skirting round the edges of understanding. I fully expect the poem to stay in some state of mystery even after all our efforts to decipher it and you giving clues but also protecting it from a straightforward translation of images, lol.

Each time I read the poem, my image of the wolf and what he represents, shifts and morphs from one thing to another, and I wonder if that's actually intended. But this is where I'm at with my understanding in the process:

The poem feels like a timeless parable for grown ups about idealism.


the lady walks in and leaves open the door
strews paper crane dreams and her babes on the floor
places stars in her eyes, blind faith in her head
“This is who I am.” she said

A very strong opening with drawing up the character in a handful of brush strokes. A mother who seems locked in her grand ideals, not rooted in reality where she needs to take constant care of her babes and provide them with protection. She leaves the door open. She has faith that the world is a good place, so there is no need to close doors, there is no danger to them. Interesting that she also detaches from the dreams we will learn more about later. She feels she has a higher calling, that requires blind faith. Already telling. Blind faith is the ultimate, but it also means unquestioning. She has identified herself by her ideals, rather than her motherhood.

What are these ideals? I figure it is that the world, that humanity is good. If you turn towards them (or any individual within it) with kindness and trust, that's all it takes. Everyone will be accepted, loved and everyone will be safe. There's no need for protection, for thinking more about it, and certainly no need for responsibility, because when you're so open and full of goodness, what wrong could you possibly do?

she unlatched the window and poured out these three:
protection, discernment, and culpability

And here comes the first hitch:

no glance at the boneyard no prayer for the lost
“Some things, my dears, are worth any cost.”

Whatever has happened before has happened, she doesn't want to know that there were victims. The choice of the word 'boneyard' is very interesting to me here, because it makes me feel further detachment from and diminishing the past. Any sacrifices or casualties were worth it, because it has led her to this state of entertaining her idealism. There is serious foreboding here, how she ignores lessons of the past, and the presence of death (bad things to come) is just outside her window.

she gathered the blankets from cradle and bed
and welcomed the wolf to step in and be fed
from bunting she wove a soft wondrous wool
“Another good work from my giving soul.”

The blankets that are supposed to comfort her children and herself, perhaps her husband too, though his existence is never explicitly mentioned, are used to create comfort for the wolf. Along with bunting that is a symbol of celebrations, in this case conjuring up images of happy family events, that are meaningless to her, because her ideals and her source of happiness are not rooted in her family. She's concerned with "greater things".

she placed it o'er furred head and enfolded sharp jaw
o'er sly knowing eyes, she erased who he was
then gathered her babies and brushed their blond silk
for the guest now-made-docile she poured out some milk

This part is particularly fascinating. She has gone into a lot of trouble for the wolf, ignoring any warning signs. She feels very good about how open and welcoming she is, how generous and understanding. This is her purpose. Only now she turns her attention to her children, that is nothing more than an absent minded quick hairbrush. She's not hugging them, engaging with them in more meaningful ways, she's not feeding them. She's only feeding the wolf.

sleep comes in waves unbeckoned it seems
and the lady succumbed to her paper crane dreams
where all fly so noble in pure symmetry
and nothing lies dormant belying her peace

These dreams come, and our lady doesn't think she wants them, they're "unbeckoned" but there's a qualifying "it seems". Maybe deep down she does want them. Eventually she succumbs to them. Because these dreams depict a life that is safe and happy, they're about a life she could have, if she weren't so intent on putting her blind faith into something she deep down knows is very dangerous.

morning dawns brilliant with scent of baked bread
the lady moves softly to waken the dead
no song of sweet voices no blue eyes no green
“How did this happen? Who did this vile thing?”

And reality strikes. You leave your guard down, wrapped in your ideals, losing your sense of reality, and bad things happen.

she ran through the village and burst through closed doors
she threw off their locks and set milk on their floors
“If only you cold souls had been kind as me
the wolf would not suffer and search for fresh meat!”

She can't entertain the thought that she was wrong. It's because everyone else is hostile and untrusting, they don't share her ideals, don't have her good heart, is how the wolf became the way he is. An abused child turned into a murderer. It's not the wolf's fault. And she might in fact be right about that. The wolf might have become the way he is because of the lack of trust and warmth. The reason ideals collapse is because humanity is incapable to embrace it, to fully trust and open arms to everyone. And there's a fabulous impasse.

the lady walks in and leaves open the door
slides absently through the muck on the floor
boldly spilled wholly and starkly deep red
“This cannot be blood.” she said

She is still in denial. Like before, when she wouldn't look at the graveyard outside. May I just take a moment here to say how brilliant this line is:

"boldly spilled wholly and starkly deep red"

So utterly chilling.

she fashioned her white flag, her happy denial
and offered up somebody else for the trial
placed stars in her eyes, blind faith in her head
“This is who I am.” she said

And here we are, where we have started, but so much darker. The cost she's recalled before, has just increased by losing her children, yet she's undeterred. She will not change her mind. She will continue to put her blind faith in her ideals.

That's what this poem means to me.
I love how it's written, like a medieval ballad. A chilling song sung by a travelling bard around a campfire. A song you can never get out of your head once you've heard it once.

Some dark poetry, Mz S. Brilliant. And terrifying.

[Lori]

Wow Mz Lori you may have taken a little time, but your writing is always worth the wait. I am full of wonder about so many things here and love the rhythm of the piece. It has a wonderful flow and I was instantly drawn into the story by such a determined yet wilfully "blind" character. What terrible happenings would she cause/witness?

I am so happy your interest is piqued! You are so astute in characterizing this lady as "willfully blind" right from the start.

the lady walks in and leaves open the door
strews paper crane dreams and her babes on the floor
places stars in her eyes, blind faith in her head
“This is who I am.” she said

she unlatched the window and poured out these three:
protection, discernment, and culpability
no glance at the boneyard no prayer for the lost
“Some things, my dears, are worth any cost.”

So the first verse sees her carelessly leaving the door open and "strewing" paper cranes (known for being a symbol of peace / hope and good fortune)over the floor, along with, horror of horrors, her very own babes. However she is set on a course that she will not veer from and in her stubborn determination and conviction (for what I wonder) she pours (interesting choice here) out everything that might help her make good choices - but it doesn't matter because she is not responsible. Furthermore all this is done without due thought for the cost of these actions.

I wondered if the history of paper cranes would translate for people. I felt, knowing you all, if it was a mystery someone would look it up!

she gathered the blankets from cradle and bed
and welcomed the wolf to step in and be fed
from bunting she wove a soft wondrous wool
“Another good work from my giving soul.

Then she proceeds to welcome the wolf into her home - praising herself for her virtue and making wool from bunting . Now where does this bunting come from? It suggest that she has festooned her house for celebration - as you might for a party or... political rally. Having fed the wolf and disguised its true nature in her eyes, she succumbs to
sleep full of wonderful dreams that do not allow for any disturbance beneath the perfect symmetry of the crane.

This was highly interesting to me and prompted me to look up the various meanings of the word "bunting". In my world (look out!), bunting is used to describe soft textiles for babies as in "baby bunting". I love that the alternate meaning "flags used in celebration" threw another light or direction on that part of the poem. I did not previously know that little strings of flags, etc., is called bunting. See how much you all teach me?

she succumbs to sleep full of wonderful dreams that do not allow for any disturbance beneath the perfect symmetry of the crane.

Yes, she is in sleep-state much as she is while awake. In fact, as you allude to below, it may merely reflect her resting state where her ideals are supported, perfected and the important work continues on sealing (blinding) her psyche as it reaches for the unattainable.

No sooner does she wake from her dreams (literal or figurative) than she realises that awful, horrible things have happened while her mind has been in a place of its own making and those things have happened right under her roof - on her watch. She rushes around blaming everyone else but herself. In fact she goes further than that, she creates a narrative where she is the virtuous one and it is the absence of her fine qualities in everyone else that has caused this disaster.

Yes! It is revealed that no consequence or outcome can break through this comfortable fog. Her mind cannot accept it was she who caused these things.

In the final verse she "surrenders" although still in denial, and sets up someone else as the scapegoat. We then get that almighty and wonderfully powerful repetition of the end of the first verse:

(she) placed stars in her eyes, blind faith in her head
“This is who I am.” she said

So who is the real wolf here dressed in sheep's clothing? There is the wolf that comes into the village whose nature (origianlly) is known and might be contained, but It is the woman who is the real threat, with her determination to do whatever she wishes without any reflection or real moral compass.

This is one of the main subtexts of this piece. Who is the real wolf? Who hides in sheep's clothing in addition to the wolf? Jolly good, Mz. K!

I am mesmerised by your inspiration for this piece Lori- ideas are whirling around my head like snowflakes. I don't know whether it's because our news is brimming over with the US election and we are totally immersed in it, but I can't help but see a parallel in a certain world leader and political events. Forgive me if I'm barking up the wrong tree but I really have enjoyed the ride and can't wait to hear more of where your idea started.

Also very interesting. I know the bunting took your mind to political events and I suspect I know of whom you speak, lol! However, for me the wolf represents a broad based danger/evil. The wolf of the story is merely fulfilling who it is and has an inherent nature that cannot be changed try as she might. Again, it is so fun to see where the story takes you.

Whatever your muse - it is a wonderful poem and I love the rhyme. It is well worth reading aloud -something which I think I must remember to do with everyone's poems as it does add another dimension.
Thank you.

Again, thank you for your thoughtful review Mz. Fast On Her Feet! It means so much to have someone solidly in my "respect" column enjoy it! I will elaborate somewhat on my muse below.

[Lori]

Good lord, Mz S. What kind of marvellous challenge have you just given us? I've read this poem now about a dozen times and also read Mz K's superb analysis, and I feel I'm still just skirting round the edges of understanding. I fully expect the poem to stay in some state of mystery even after all our efforts to decipher it and you giving clues but also protecting it from a straightforward translation of images, lol.

Thanks, Mz. A for really committing to this poem! A DOZEN times?!!! That is impressive. Regarding preserving mystery, somebody knows me well!

Each time I read the poem, my image of the wolf and what he represents, shifts and morphs from one thing to another, and I wonder if that's actually intended. But this is where I'm at with my understanding in the process:

The poem feels like a timeless parable for grown ups about idealism.

That is absolutely the soul of this piece. And the "wolf" indeed is fluid in concept.

the lady walks in and leaves open the door
strews paper crane dreams and her babes on the floor
places stars in her eyes, blind faith in her head
“This is who I am.” she said

A very strong opening with drawing up the character in a handful of brush strokes. A mother who seems locked in her grand ideals, not rooted in reality where she needs to take constant care of her babes and provide them with protection. She leaves the door open. She has faith that the world is a good place, so there is no need to close doors, there is no danger to them. Interesting that she also detaches from the dreams we will learn more about later. She feels she has a higher calling, that requires blind faith. Already telling. Blind faith is the ultimate, but it also means unquestioning. She has identified herself by her ideals, rather than her motherhood.

Yes, perhaps even without her knowledge that she has traded one for the other.

What are these ideals? I figure it is that the world, that humanity is good. If you turn towards them (or any individual within it) with kindness and trust, that's all it takes. Everyone will be accepted, loved and everyone will be safe. There's no need for protection, for thinking more about it, and certainly no need for responsibility, because when you're so open and full of goodness, what wrong could you possibly do?

Yes - were it only so.

she unlatched the window and poured out these three:
protection, discernment, and culpability

And here comes the first hitch:

no glance at the boneyard no prayer for the lost
“Some things, my dears, are worth any cost.”

Whatever has happened before has happened, she doesn't want to know that there were victims. The choice of the word 'boneyard' is very interesting to me here, because it makes me feel further detachment from and diminishing the past. Any sacrifices or casualties were worth it, because it has led her to this state of entertaining her idealism. There is serious foreboding here, how she ignores lessons of the past, and the presence of death (bad things to come) is just outside her window.

Spot on!

she gathered the blankets from cradle and bed
and welcomed the wolf to step in and be fed
from bunting she wove a soft wondrous wool
“Another good work from my giving soul.”

The blankets that are supposed to comfort her children and herself, perhaps her husband too, though his existence is never explicitly mentioned, are used to create comfort for the wolf. Along with bunting that is a symbol of celebrations, in this case conjuring up images of happy family events, that are meaningless to her, because her ideals and her source of happiness are not rooted in her family. She's concerned with "greater things".

Yes, the blankets were meant for all of that. Again, it is interesting that the word "bunting" represents celebration rather than baby bunting. I like where it took your mind.

she placed it o'er furred head and enfolded sharp jaw
o'er sly knowing eyes, she erased who he was
then gathered her babies and brushed their blond silk
for the guest now-made-docile she poured out some milk

This part is particularly fascinating. She has gone into a lot of trouble for the wolf, ignoring any warning signs. She feels very good about how open and welcoming she is, how generous and understanding. This is her purpose. Only now she turns her attention to her children, that is nothing more than an absent minded quick hairbrush. She's not hugging them, engaging with them in more meaningful ways, she's not feeding them. She's only feeding the wolf.

Yes, and she is only feeding the wolf milk rather than the protein it needs - not handling the problem. Woefully inadequate to keep innate hunger at bay.

sleep comes in waves unbeckoned it seems
and the lady succumbed to her paper crane dreams
where all fly so noble in pure symmetry
and nothing lies dormant belying her peace

These dreams come, and our lady doesn't think she wants them, they're "unbeckoned" but there's a qualifying "it seems". Maybe deep down she does want them. Eventually she succumbs to them. Because these dreams depict a life that is safe and happy, they're about a life she could have, if she weren't so intent on putting her blind faith into something she deep down knows is very dangerous.

I really like that you say "something she deep down knows is very dangerous". Her ideals will not allow that to sink in and inform her actions. She knows deep down but brushes it off and floats in denial.

Fun fact or admission? I think the first line of that paragraph is basically one of those throw-away lines purely acting as a stepping stone to the next. It's incredibly fun to see what you ascribe to it. That is the beauty of these things as they flow through other's heads.

morning dawns brilliant with scent of baked bread
the lady moves softly to waken the dead
no song of sweet voices no blue eyes no green
“How did this happen? Who did this vile thing?”

And reality strikes. You leave your guard down, wrapped in your ideals, losing your sense of reality, and bad things happen.

she ran through the village and burst through closed doors
she threw off their locks and set milk on their floors
“If only you cold souls had been kind as me
the wolf would not suffer and search for fresh meat!”

She can't entertain the thought that she was wrong. It's because everyone else is hostile and untrusting, they don't share her ideals, don't have her good heart, is how the wolf became the way he is. An abused child turned into a murderer. It's not the wolf's fault. And she might in fact be right about that. The wolf might have become the way he is because of the lack of trust and warmth. The reason ideals collapse is because humanity is incapable to embrace it, to fully trust and open arms to everyone. And there's a fabulous impasse.

Pontosan, barátom! (I hope I didn't just make you a man...) Perfectly stated. In addition, in the heady fog of denial she endangers those who would protect themselves, throwing open closed doors, destroying their locks and placing the ineffective milk on their floors which may only serve as an invitation. She is forcing her ideals on others.

the lady walks in and leaves open the door
slides absently through the muck on the floor
boldly spilled wholly and starkly deep red
“This cannot be blood.” she said

She is still in denial. Like before, when she wouldn't look at the graveyard outside. May I just take a moment here to say how brilliant this line is:

"boldly spilled wholly and starkly deep red"

So utterly chilling.

she fashioned her white flag, her happy denial
and offered up somebody else for the trial
placed stars in her eyes, blind faith in her head
“This is who I am.” she said

And here we are, where we have started, but so much darker. The cost she's recalled before, has just increased by losing her children, yet she's undeterred. She will not change her mind. She will continue to put her blind faith in her ideals.

This is the main text of the piece with the subtext being the question of who is wearing the sheep's clothing. Much contemplation could be had if overlaid on history, etc. One might agree her ideals are worth any price, depending on what they are. Yet, this person nearly casually made the ultimate sacrifice to stay true to those ideals and she seems to have learned nothing.

That's what this poem means to me.
I love how it's written, like a medieval ballad. A chilling song sung by a travelling bard around a campfire. A song you can never get out of your head once you've heard it once.

Some dark poetry, Mz S. Brilliant. And terrifying.

Again, thanks so much for your beautiful review and the time invested! You are one talented soul and it means a lot! (Plus, I knew you could handle if TWD leaves you able to walk and talk.)

[Peggy]

I consider the below "poem" not a real poem just a poetic excerise for the SHE PUT project and a practise of writing. For me the concept that I came up with was more important than to carefully choose and detail the things that she put... So:

SOMEWHERE

she put the car key, the monkey wrench and the violin clef
into a basket.
she put the ripe peaches – the pride of her garden – in there too.
she put those long-haired girls and
the chestnut that she picked for her dog to play with.
She poured into the basket the smell of the rain
and those vivid shades of green and
the hissing sound of tyres on wet pavement.
Into the basket she put the gnawning uneasiness of the distance
that slinked in between her and a friend
and the taste of the wind (that blows
the long hair of those beautiful girls),
the grey monolith of her tiredness
and finally she chucked his constantly beeping
smartphone in there too.

Really strong imagery - I think you had me at "she put those long-haired girls" and the "smell of rain" and "vivid greens"....just lovely. I love the tangible and emotional melding together side by side, with the wind hearkening back to the beautiful girls. The gray monolith is so descriptive.

so she became light like a balloon
and happily flew up high,
somewhere,
over the rainbow.
(and she carefully folded its colours into the basket too).

but then she had a funny feeling…

so with a hook she fished the chestnut out of the basket
and put it back in her pocket. and the peaches. and the tyres.
and so she did with the car key, the monkey wrench and the violin clef.
she reached for the wind and the rain, for the shades of green
and for those long haired girls and tucked them all back into her pocket.
she pulled out of the basket the colours of the rainbow
and even the gnawing distance and the smartphone,
and squeezed them into her buldging pocket.
but she did not find her tiredness.

and so she landed with a smile and smoothly touched the ground.

I love the metamorphosis that occurs here. Having seen only a few of your pieces, I wonder if this is a recurring theme for you. If so, it is a wonderful thread running throughout and you depict it so well. I love the colours of the rainbow being carefully preserved and what I would define as internalized. I find myself wishing this could be an illustrated "short" film - we have a section in PH Harbour here with a lot of those. I can see a talented artist playing with the many skillfully-crafted visuals. Very enjoyable, Mz. P!

Dear All, first of all I am extremely sorry for having been away for quite a while and this is just a short visit too. I am unexpectedly busy lately and though I am very tired one can be grateful for having enough work nowadays! But I miss you and would like to return soon
Lori, I am very grateful to you for having written about my 'poem". It is quite interesting to see "myself" through someone's eyes who does not really know me and have never met me. I am quite pleased with your remark about "metamorphosis" as a central "theme " of mine. I think it really is! Thank you for defining "internalization". I did not have it in mind but I hope it did happen ! And what you wrote about the short film, actually, there was one running in my head while writing!
Dee, your new poem is wonderful, I will try to write about it in more details later!
Dee and Kathy, as for the "keys", the English dictionary did mention "violin key", what a pity that it is not in use! As for the "monkey wrench" I was delighted and the noiton me being a DIY person is correct (I can see myself as a little monkey who tries to mend things, yeah
I can see that there are at least 2 more pages of conversation that I have not even read, so please, bear with me and I will go on! Till then I wish you all the possible best!!!

[Lori]

[Dee]

Come back soon, you little monkey!

[Dee]

So much boils down to our perception and understanding of human nature. If we want to believe that trust and kindness and will always be reciprocated and met with cooperation, it’s very hard to accept it’s not always the case. Perhaps it’s all fault. We weren’t kind and generous ENOUGH. Must try even harder. Or just turn the other cheek, that might stop them. Appeal to their conscience. Will things into being.

Of course it’s one thing when we put only ourselves on the line, and quite another when we are putting others at risk for our own convictions... Many were sacrificed on this altar through history. So very sad.

It’s probably impossible to do the right thing all the time. Find the balance between trust and sensibly cautious. Life and people are incredibly hard to navigate at times.

[Peggy]

Sheep’s Clothing
S.L.

the lady walks in and leaves open the door
strews paper crane dreams and her babes on the floor
places stars in her eyes, blind faith in her head
“This is who I am.” she said

she unlatched the window and poured out these three:
protection, discernment, and culpability
no glance at the boneyard no prayer for the lost
“Some things, my dears, are worth any cost.”

she gathered the blankets from cradle and bed
and welcomed the wolf to step in and be fed
from bunting she wove a soft wondrous wool
“Another good work from my giving soul.”

she placed it o'er furred head and enfolded sharp jaw
o'er sly knowing eyes, she erased who he was
then gathered her babies and brushed their blond silk
for the guest now-made-docile she poured out some milk

sleep comes in waves unbeckoned it seems
and the lady succumbed to her paper crane dreams
where all fly so noble in pure symmetry
and nothing lies dormant belying her peace

morning dawns brilliant with scent of baked bread
the lady moves softly to waken the dead
no song of sweet voices no blue eyes no green
“How did this happen? Who did this vile thing?”

she ran through the village and burst through closed doors
she threw off their locks and set milk on their floors
“If only you cold souls had been kind as me
the wolf would not suffer and search for fresh meat!”

the lady walks in and leaves open the door
slides absently through the muck on the floor
boldly spilled wholly and starkly deep red
“This cannot be blood.” she said

she fashioned her white flag, her happy denial
and offered up somebody else for the trial
placed stars in her eyes, blind faith in her head
“This is who I am.” she said

Dear Mz Lori, well, having read this superb, subtle, puzzling, horryfingly, shockingly wonderful ballad of yours questions in me if I ever should try to write another line!! Seriously! I was shivering, goose bumps, all the way through! I feel ackward even to jot down some thougths of mine about it as everything feels so lame, empty, ordinary – so useless - compared to this masterpiece!
I loved the rythm, the structure of frame, the floating mystery, the courage! I am deeply enchanted and moved!
Writing this I intentionally have not read any of the previous comments and/or explanations.
For me this woman is in a loosened state of mind in which she „leaves open the door” for her Shadow. I wonder if she went mad because of having become a mother, probably deep down she doesn’t want, doesn’t love her children, she is not able to take responsibility, maybe subconsiously she wants to get rid of them. Her darkest feelings arise and in the picture of the wolf she feeds them.
When she succumbed to her paper crane dreams, she escapes from reality and she can be finally free.
In the morning she is not only in denial of her deed but tries to put the blame on others even at the court. Still, I have the feeling that when the second „This is who I am” pounds down like a hatchet, it is the moment of admission – at least for herself.

[Lori]

Sheep’s Clothing
S.L.

the lady walks in and leaves open the door
strews paper crane dreams and her babes on the floor
places stars in her eyes, blind faith in her head
“This is who I am.” she said

she unlatched the window and poured out these three:
protection, discernment, and culpability
no glance at the boneyard no prayer for the lost
“Some things, my dears, are worth any cost.”

she gathered the blankets from cradle and bed
and welcomed the wolf to step in and be fed
from bunting she wove a soft wondrous wool
“Another good work from my giving soul.”

she placed it o'er furred head and enfolded sharp jaw
o'er sly knowing eyes, she erased who he was
then gathered her babies and brushed their blond silk
for the guest now-made-docile she poured out some milk

sleep comes in waves unbeckoned it seems
and the lady succumbed to her paper crane dreams
where all fly so noble in pure symmetry
and nothing lies dormant belying her peace

morning dawns brilliant with scent of baked bread
the lady moves softly to waken the dead
no song of sweet voices no blue eyes no green
“How did this happen? Who did this vile thing?”

she ran through the village and burst through closed doors
she threw off their locks and set milk on their floors
“If only you cold souls had been kind as me
the wolf would not suffer and search for fresh meat!”

the lady walks in and leaves open the door
slides absently through the muck on the floor
boldly spilled wholly and starkly deep red
“This cannot be blood.” she said

she fashioned her white flag, her happy denial
and offered up somebody else for the trial
placed stars in her eyes, blind faith in her head
“This is who I am.” she said

Dear Mz Lori, well, having read this superb, subtle, puzzling, horryfingly, shockingly wonderful ballad of yours questions in me if I ever should try to write another line!! Seriously! I was shivering, goose bumps, all the way through! I feel ackward even to jot down some thougths of mine about it as everything feels so lame, empty, ordinary – so useless - compared to this masterpiece!

Mz. P - you are so kind and you describe the very feelings I have when responding to the writings here, including yours! It is a dark piece for certain sure. Actually, I have a little trouble not immediately going to that cathartic place to exercise minor grinning demons when I write. My challenge is writing something touching or beautiful. I tell myself it is because I opt for beauty on a daily basis so entertain the opposite when putting things on paper (maybe - ha!) I love that you call it a ballad as it was somewhat patterned after old-timey Grimm's type tales.

I loved the rythm, the structure of frame, the floating mystery, the courage! I am deeply enchanted and moved!

Thank you so much. I love it affected you this way.

Writing this I intentionally have not read any of the previous comments and/or explanations.
For me this woman is in a loosened state of mind in which she „leaves open the door” for her Shadow. I wonder if she went mad because of having become a mother, probably deep down she doesn’t want, doesn’t love her children, she is not able to take responsibility, maybe subconsiously she wants to get rid of them. Her darkest feelings arise and in the picture of the wolf she feeds them.

This is an entirely fascinating take on the tale and I can see it completely. That is a very dark place this state of mind would take someone and actually has taken people before, sad but true. In my head, the woman is clueless of her actions being detrimental to her children - but they SO ARE and she will never take responsibility (as you say) and indeed places blame elsewhere. The way you interpret this piece is really amazing and darkly layered.

When she succumbed to her paper crane dreams, she escapes from reality and she can be finally free.

Yes, that speaks of deep escapism.

In the morning she is not only in denial of her deed but tries to put the blame on others even at the court. Still, I have the feeling that when the second „This is who I am” pounds down like a hatchet, it is the moment of admission – at least for herself.

Complete and utter denial, and then placing blame on others for sure.

You know, your review was so great and very intriguing for me. I like the very viable interpretations for this piece. It reminded me of this drawing:



Do we see the young lady or the old lady? Both are solidly viable. Your take on the piece is a bit braver and darker than my original intent, but it fits very well. Thank you for taking your time and your incredibly kind words.