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Colors of Ancient
by Shirin SwiftMistral colors rage in a jar I clean my brush in tink-tink-tink for at times we spar;
I could not plait the purity of your failings into French Knots
inner fires shiver, scarves are left on chairs in a tumult to leave the café
because of constant threats, there is a constant taste of weeds
in my mouth, they predicted that I could not step outside the forests and vast spaces
stymie inside circling emptying passion, the speed with which you knock back shooters.
A thin garden grows where her breasts used to be
windows obliterate her shadows feminine and masculine selves
shut down becoming bookends.
Muted chatter reaches my consciousness spirals off a patron's cigarette.
They aren't saying a thing more profound than what I already know
(It must be very dear - the price you pay for snow.)
What color is ancient? I'd say it's unimaginably brilliant,
like the unpronouncable name of God.
Infinity that starts in the imagination and ends in mortality:
outstretched windows and stiffening, ground-logged feelers. 10/30/2006 Posted on 10/30/2006
Copyright © 2024 Shirin Swift
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Lacy D Phillips on 10/31/06 at 06:37 PM Brilliant! So descriptive and mellifluous. |
| Posted by Kathleen Wilson on 11/11/06 at 04:58 PM Wonderful setting, and with what colors brush-painted this poem is. The details in your poems beam out in unique fascination. The vision that came to me from this was irresistable, comes from my own experience and yet fits this poem entirely, which demonstrates the multi-facetted and leveled interpretation possible. I have a friend (who is no longer alive). She was an artist as well as a writer, photograper, and small film maker,--she went to Paris and lived with a family who owned a restaurant on the edge of a graveyard... her related experience of conversation, smokey atmosphere, hearing bits of conversation, looking out the window, swept back to me as if I was there! |
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