This poem was inspired by the line “After he lost his sight, he could discriminate colors by their…” from C.D. Wright’s Deepstep Come Shining. Poetry has never been my strong suit, so I had some difficulty getting it to turn out the way I would have liked it to.
Dawn’s light cannot pass through his eyes,
For still at noon he walks through midnight fog.
The haze will remain until he breathes his last
And the afterlife dissolves the screen.
In the midst of the atmosphere,
He stares directly at the sun above,
But his occipital lobe neglects
To acknowledge its crimson glow.
Though a black tarp hangs before his brow,
He paints murals on the iridescent canvass
With the immortal pallet that occupies
The confines of his aging memory.
Though sight has eradicated itself
From the coalition of the senses,
Recollection, aided by the other four,
Helps to renew his tarnished vision.
The warmth of the sun on his flesh
Generates shades of red and orange,
While the taste of fresh lemonade
Compliments Apollo with a yellow crown.
The scent of mountain pine and oak
Infuse his nostrils with every hue of green.
The color wheel almost complete,
He awaits the arrival of his most beloved tone.
From the door of the cottage
Emerges the voice of his wife,
An overwhelming collage of blue and violet,
So soothing it retains the sights of his youth.
During morning drives through the meadow
He would exhale upon the icy glass,
Forming sheets that eventually dissipated
And revealed the colors of the world.
"He paints murals on the iridescent canvass
ReplyDeleteWith the immortal pallet that occupies
The confines of his aging memory."
Eric, I really like that line. It pretty much sums up the beauty of this poem, that the blind man sees much more than we can ever see. I also like the romantic touch at the end, and how he sees the wife's voice as a distinct color(s). That's very sweet :)
A blind man who experiences colors through his other senses? A good concept and technically fine. The diction is still high though and perhaps too literary, that is in the voice of poets past. Try writing this in your voice, everyday language, about a man who lives across the street and see what comes up.
ReplyDeleteFun fact: did you know that people that are blind can still dream? They dream in colors and scent and smell... it's actually very interesting.
ReplyDeleteThe second and third stanza are, by far, my favorite part of the poem. The description of everyday things are crisp and fresh to imagine; instead of imagining the actual person or object, there is only a burst of color. It reminds me of the idea of reading a person's "aura". I would think that this sort of description would be what aura readers see, don't you? :)