Wednesday, January 18, 2017

Palette, a poem


Once, I painted poems in Payne’s Gray,
all cool shadow, misted monochrome.

Then, a dab of Cobalt Blue, to sing
of the passions long kept from my canvas,

Burnt Sienna, rich blood-brown of earth.
Could I capture Viridian depths of sea?

Bring that to my palette. Give me reds,
Cadmiums, Alizarin, wild beasts

leaping from the brush. Let golden Ochers
stand triumphant; let them resonate,

suns in skies imagined, yearning ever
to exist as more than shades of gray.

Once, I painted colorless illusions
to evaporate before the sun,

hid within my subtle fogs those poems,
all those tricks of light that held no meaning.

I would fill my palette with life’s colors,
every vivid hue, each nuanced shade

captured and set free again. The blacks
must be blacker; let the whites be blinding

and more pure than morning’s soul. In dreams
Ultramarine and Umber, shall I paint,

in exuberant brush strokes of words
Carmine and Cerulean, of Lemon

Yellow, Chromium Green. Lay out the palette,
all your colors; canvases await.

Stephen Brooke ©2017

In relatively strict blank-verse form

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