Today's Poem -- the second from Marge Piercy

Colors Passing Through Us

Purple as tulips in May, mauve

into lush velvet, purple

as the stain blackberries leave

on the lips, on the hands,

the purple of ripe grapes

sunlit and warm as flesh.

Every day I will give you a color,

like a new flower in a bud vase

on your desk. Every day

I will paint you, as women

color each other with henna

on hands and on feet.



Red as henna, as cinnamon,

as coals after the fire is banked,

the cardinal in the feeder,

the roses tumbling on the arbor

their weight bending the wood

the red of the syrup I make from petals.




Orange as the perfumed fruit

hanging their globes on the glossy tree,

orange as pumpkins in the field,

orange as butterflyweed and the monarchs

who come to eat it, orange as my

cat running lithe through the high grass.



Yellow as a goat's wise and wicked eyes,

yellow as a hill of daffodils,

yellow as dandelions by the highway,

yellow as butter and egg yolks,

yellow as a school bus stopping you,

yellow as a slicker in a downpour.



Here is my bouquet, here is a sing

song of all the things you make

me think of, here is oblique

praise for the height and depth

of you and the width too.

Here is my box of new crayons at your feet.




Green as mint jelly, green

as a frog on a lily pad twanging,

the green of cos lettuce upright

about to bolt into opulent towers,

green as Grand Chartreuse in a clear

glass, green as wine bottles.




Blue as cornflowers, delphiniums,

bachelors' buttons. Blue as Roquefort,

blue as Saga. Blue as still water.

Blue as the eyes of a Siamese cat.

Blue as shadows on new snow, as a spring

azure sipping from a puddle on the blacktop.




Cobalt as the midnight sky

when day has gone without a trace

and we lie in each other's arms

eyes shut and fingers open

and all the colors of the world

pass through our bodies like strings of fire.




~~Marge Piercy



There is something so striking and bold in the use of the "color" words in poetry. The best poets make you visualize all those colors, just in the way they use the words. I'm particularly fond of the "Yellow" beginning in each line of the "yellow" verse of this poem.

gasoline rainbows

gasoline rainbows
on black asphalt,
spilled from somewhere
above,
as I am walking home
with a heaving heart


the liquid blue
of my endless ocean,
a fluid and eternal
god
who slips forever
from my searching grasp


a yellow smear
of cannibal cowardice
and the everflowing
fear,
filling in the holes
of the path I must tread


shimmering green
of an envious fire
burning in sunlit eyes,
desire
turned inward
for lack of an outward escape


the royal purple
of my martyrs bruise
and the fractured face of
pain
as I court an impossible aim,
to be a prince among men


and infernal red,
the shade of rage,
burning to the surface of
emotion,
enflamed by the battered heart
who ignites ego’s ambitions


these are the colors
of my combustible heart,
displayed for all to see
on a busy street,
waiting for a spark of sun
to erupt me into action


- j. meredith



I am convinced that in this lifetime I've made the acquaintance of someone whose poetry will one day be famous. I've been wrong before, but from time to time I'll feature a poem by an unknown midwestern writer -- my friend, Jon Meredith.