If a Clown: poem by Stephen Dunn

One of my favorite poets, Stephen Dunn, has a poem in the New Yorker titled "If A Clown" It gets into a lot of issues about fear of clowns, the magic of clowns, and a certain amount of the silly/hokey/crazy stuff you might do while dressed in white paint. Quite simply, this clown could have been me (although I rarely do birthday parties...) In the comments feel free to write a poem in response-- if we get a good one, we'll send it into the New Yorker. If a Clown by Stephen Dunn August 24, 2009 newyorker.com If a clown came out of the woods, a standard-looking clown with oversized polka-dot clothes, floppy shoes, a red, bulbous nose, and you saw him on the edge of your property, there'd be nothing funny about that, would there? A bear might be preferable, especially if black and berry-driven. And if this clown began waving his hands with those big white gloves that clowns wear, and you realized he wanted your attention, had something apparently urgent to tell you, would you pivot and run from him, or stay put, as my friend did, who seemed to understand here was a clown who didn't know where he was, a clown without a context? What could be sadder, my friend thought, than a clown in need of a context? If then the clown said to you that he was on his way to a kid's birthday party, his car had broken down, and he needed a ride, would you give him one? Or would the connection between the comic and the appalling, as it pertained to clowns, be suddenly so clear that you'd be paralyzed by it? And if you were the clown, and my friend hesitated, as he did, would you make a sad face, and with an enormous finger wipe away an imaginary tear? How far would you trust your art? I can tell you it worked. Most of the guests had gone when my friend and the clown drove up, and the family was angry. But the clown twisted a balloon into the shape of a bird and gave it to the kid, who smiled, let it rise to the ceiling. If you were the kid, the birthday boy, what from then on would be your relationship with disappointment? With joy? Whom would you blame or extoll? If a Clown: newyorker.com