Monday, 7 November 2011

shades of our reality.

I have no pictures today.  I'm so very very very very (very very very very...) sorry, but I honestly haven't had any time between school and NaNoWriMo.  It crossed my mind today, though, that although I've shared a couple of poems on this blog (here and here, if you're interested), I haven't shown you the one off of which I'm basing the plot of my novel.

Hey, look, this is a picture.  Not a particularly fashion-related one, but
a picture all the same.  Wouldn't you agree?  So there :)

Typically I don't want to tell people what my ideas are regarding my poetry, but in the interest of helping you to understand the plot a little more (hah, as if there's a plot to understand...), I'll tell you this: it's about a mother and a daughter, and their relationship or lack thereof.

Anyway, without any further ado, le poem:

shades of our reality.

there are pens designed
simply to be looked at
without regard for the concepts
clamouring to run forth
in blue, or maybe black –
the expensive ones are never too
imaginative with

when I sat at the foot of your
bed, you told me colour
was all we were made of
and all we could ever count on.
even in chaos, there is
even death and destruction lend
their own shading
to the world.

if you add shadow to an image
it looks more realistic.
I should have seen the shadows
even then.

even then, I could see
that the dust around your love was
and not a warm grey at all.
perhaps I should explain that
your love was never for me
but for the ink pens
though you’d spend hours tracing
our hands, clasped.

indigo was your favourite,
because I was your second favourite
and that was my colour.
it was everything about me,
though I didn’t know its meaning,
and I suspected you only kept me close
for the colour of my eyes.

we matched, see; I was your shadow
except my eyes burned,
you said,
with a fire behind their façade of calm.

when you taught me to spell
“calm” and “calamity”,
I used them interchangeably.
you said I was wise.

though we matched, your colour was
and the sunflowers that died in
scattered vases around our
empty house
reminded me of scrubbing pots.

you did the knives yourself,
because you told me they were too
dull for my hands.
pots make music.
knives make quiet.

when your ink pens stopped,
your stories had run dry.
I still pretended I could imagine
I could see them, if that is

but I could also see the end
of our world and of
and that took no imagination
at all.

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