" Art is Life "
Colours are taking new names
as they are pressed into birth.
Ochre is unworthy, only cobalt carries
an air of mystery, maybe cerulean if
whispered low to firelight. .
Between viridian and the mind
lies the west wind through palm fronds.
Dawn in these latitudes is an entwining
of cadmium red and a yellow whose name
has been rubbed from the tube
through over-use.
I give parched hues water, cultivate
soft textures for the tongue of my brush,
lay facets of you on paper; skin and the glint
of dark eyes, judicious use of white
so as not to appear as bald statement
but a glimpse of star through cloud.
Each stroke, careful or abandoned
will be thought made visible, a placement
of who you were, hidden smilingly
in curves of petal, the shine of waterslick fur.
Perhaps I will fashion you into the haze of distance
seen in July days, make you mirage.
The force that powers the hand is constant,
a knowledge that love must be expressed
in colours and exhibited .
Anger is the most spectacular red,
I will not give in to monochrome unless it is tinted
blue with the dust of remembered Gemenids.
© 2003 Vienna (Carole Barley)
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