- More by Charles Simic
- Black and White: The Colours of Conflict [A Poem]
- Kevin Patrick
- 265 Free images of Poetry
- Black, White And Grey - Poem by Kevin Patrick
Her voice a fluid. Like a wound inside my mouth when a marzipan grape sprayed with color spurts its brandy.
More by Charles Simic
The blue rings inside me. I am the hood of a bell slammed by the clapper; sound shakes, rips colors and tones, so I see my split selves come back to rest, cast, and whole. At the Piano. Love is the wind that hurries through all.
Black and White: The Colours of Conflict [A Poem]
The sax player is careful with my eardrums. My husband stabs at the keys and roils them. Into this room leaks the. His blues fog the mountains;. In the tub, bubbles sparkle and hiss. I sniff orange and neroli, turn my body that warms like a baby. On this hard mattress, buttoned into pockets, I once cut powder lines. The floor's blue ground floats yellow circles.
Gold drapes expose the fish tank of the parking lot. A window seat narrows, made for robots, tilts forward as if the whole room could lift. Curtains pierced like shower liners rattle across a porthole onto Alabama's pines. My family jams circles into slot machines. Oz is here, drawing his curtains.
I laid my head on my Mama's stomach: "I want you to die in my arms. On the phone when I told her, "I'm coming back early," she broke two syllables, "You are? The words rose, opened like a bubble, planetary, a circle in which she knew that "o" in the word love was meant for her. Head-dressed in orange down, the color of Georgia, he wears two white mantles; his feelers splay, two minnows' fishbones, delicate as lashes.
He holds his nine inch spread on four furred nubs palmed to a leaf, his rear legs tucked under its edge. Four white patches arrest us, the whole embroidery complex as a Chinese robe, silked in oranges, whites and greys. Even his segmented carapace is eyed on its underside, no part of his body is not marked. Under a microscope his whole cape is mailed with shining platelets, a roman army's phalanx glinting their shields so sun becomes a weapon. Seeing him soaking through his colors is to learn regard of a small god. Inside this domed atrium, steaming with released humidity, in the eighty degrees butterflies like, morphos glint silver, polished blue; swallowtails flash emerald glitter.
Small Postmen deliver their reds.
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On the undersides of seeded fern, Paper Kites, a dozen black and white sails hung upside-down, each in a luff, inflate. Pale yellow Sulphers make a circlet of flutter around and around each other, drawing wreaths in the air that show and disappear. Like Tinkerbell's sparking wand they trail pollen, attach themselves one frill to another, thrift to butterfly bush to bee balm to sedum, soak the cosmos. So this Atlas, giant in his brown study, holds up invisible circles, links that sustain us for each other.
Question Marks land on us without fear. A judge from Tupelo tells me tankers piss dioxin past the shotgun shacks. Done eat the asphalt white. Sparrows come through portals in the chain link windows. Colic means inconsolable, my sister tells me. The Pope knew about the gassing of the Jews.
He turned like an eggplant when he died, all black. In my dining room, a horse comes through the wall, pastels scratched against the surface of white-washed feed sacks. At five, in the winter, they come six or seven, red-feathered in the boxwood, for sunflower seeds, a heat's compression soaked into the cobbled face of a flower. Poems Poems from Green Target, winner of the Barrow Street Press Poetry Prize, published in Agricultural Fair Four little pigs ran in an orbit, an oblong of four tracks, each ringed with a colored collar, toward a pile of neon Cheetos, then disappeared into their home trailer.
The caller, a hefty farmer, picked me, said "You've never been on a farm before in your life," and he was right. I wanted my piglet to win, urged her--or him--in the racket. Geese hustled, orange shoed, then goats.
In the Mother Moo barn--huge, aluminum-- twin calves, day old, collapsed in the hay; we hoped their mother knew not to step near their flicked-back ears, their sloe-eyed wonder. The family wore coats burnished the color of composted clay.
265 Free images of Poetry
Tiny chicks hovered under the feathered skirts of a hen, disappeared there, under their mother, yellow and black, downy, washing forward in little waves, toward a dish of dried corn. Two giant swinging shovels rose up, turned people inside their cages upside down, fell, swooped past, dragging screams in a path. My mother lay content, as if in hay; I put my head on her stomach, told her to wait for me to come back. I held her waist, while she scooted the walker ahead. Even the squash are giant green acorns.
Cucumbers fatten, first cornichons, then thumb-sized pickles, then men's organs; everything stirs first, then begins. Blue cornflowers borrow purple. Hartley's trench coat from the war smelled of camphor and tobacco; his brother, one arm shorter from polio, joined the Brits' ambulance corps, ate eggs in Burma to avoid vindaloo.
Sitting one night in his ambulance, he saw a black shadow, its stomach low-slung, a panther. I call it luck when a black cat crosses my path. A neighbor's dammed the stream, never cuts swales, so his water runs on our land from higher up, floods the logging track. My resentments get fed by thoughts, set roots, bear fruit. In Cairo every night after dinner, I walked, careful to keep my eyes to myself, downcast, but watched. In one dirt-floored market, black scarves hid women's faces, their men suspicious.
An infidel in their midst, I turned back, past corn roasted on coals, tomatoes a deep green flooded to orange, tasting of captive sunlight. Now Tahrir Square teems; "They lead us to do this, with how they dress, how they walk. We've all seen demons: as a man decides to hit; a sister rolls her eyes. The Gettysburg Review 3 Laced through a sneaker's eyelets, it nips a finger, a tiny prick. It was an acceptance. Because black encompasses all colors. Black is the most aristocratic color of all … You can be quiet, and it contains the whole thing. Pink adds a cosmetic-like radiance and warmth.
Black drains the skin of color; pink delights the eye.
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Bright colors are what depresses me. Black is poetic.
Black, White And Grey - Poem by Kevin Patrick
How do you imagine a poet? In a bright yellow jacket? Probably not. Black is lazy and easy—but mysterious. A woman in a black dress is a pencil stroke. Share Facebook Pinterest Twitter Tumblr. What's hot. Updated June