Wednesday, July 9, 2008

Indigo: A Poem in Three Parts


An indigo painted dream lies here

as a beacon for all who seek to dream.

Ripples cascading forever and into the past

long for those who are full; a denied

absence of colour, prolonged interrogations

and still, a silent curse

blessed on the head of one who is asleep.

The words here are pure,

resistant to fire and calming to hands cool

and fragrant of dying roses.

Words are linked to a forgiving blessing

given by a priest or witch doctor

who rattles the bones of dead goddesses.

Supple and limber are the dreams

awakened by the non blue non black painting,

giving those who have lost hope a chance to blink.

My eyes, still crying from when I was born

are stained the same colour as the painting-

my scarlet letter for a new generation.


Guilt: a form of controlling others.

Nonsense to those who fear

an otherwise bastard of a tale.

Fires, small and large, smell sweetly

of the herbs thrown in, giving off such heady scents

that we can not help ourselves but rather sing.

From the indigo painting to the fire

that was started by fish who knew better.

Atrocious, I think (such a humble writer am I),

to prefer the light to the dark,

of saints and shadows, of sunflowers and water lillies,

here I stand before you, on trial for my creation

of what sets people free. Guilt, they tell me,

comes not from me but rather what lies behind me-

the painting of indigo, of colour and of none.

Yet they see my eyes ringed with sweat,

they see my eyes of indigo,

they see my painting of indigo.

My guilt becomes my skin.


She is what you make of her.

I can not take credit for her birth

but how I wish I could; she comes from the painting,

the central force of the dreaming and the lost.

To touch her is to forever sleep, snuggled

deep within the folds of a womb of black.

She is not coarse; soft hands guide me and only me

towards the painting that I both love and fear.

The silence surrounds us, swallows the writer whole

and later, much later, is awakened by the

sounds of the sea; at last, the writer

is in the painting, a captive willing

to desert all she knew of before.

This is her pardon for the guilt

(I am made clear again)

made recognizable by the trial that never happened.

And this, you may ask me,

what of this? What is next?

What is before and what has occurred?

I smile and say "Nothing."

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