(An International Journal of Poetry)
ISSN 2249 –2178
Volume-3 DECEMBER -2013 Number-2
The talk of the colours.
by Sheikha A
‘He has been using an awful lot of me,’
gloated White, spreading like a staining
yolk on the palette.
The rest of the colours, pinched eyelets,
squinted at the enlarging pool of flaunt
in pathetic jealousy.
‘Look at me,’ grunt-sighed White,
‘I’m a mess of all of you,’ it scorned,
splotched from mixes with its peer shades.
‘We are just as much important...,’
contributed Brown, ‘We exist side by side.’
‘Why ever not,’ hooted White.
‘I am primary. I am binary
to all codes of colour that exist.
Without me, a painting is amiss.
‘I mix with the dark hues of the night
and turn it to day. I can pale the deep
red of roses to pastels of pinkish array.
‘I give the oceans a froth and furore.
I dust the night skies with a dash of hope.
‘I paint the moon; I make the stars.
I am forever. I will never depart.’
‘But, notice the painting,’ Brown interceded,
‘The artist is the master of the piece created.
‘The sky is a dusking purple with tinges
of yellow and gold. The clouds shaded,
even the ocean’s froth have been hued grey.
The roses have not been painted in; sands
look like sulking traces of desires dimmed.
‘While, White, you contain and change
us to create images new and unique,
the art is complete when together we tint.
‘If you look closely at the painting,
the master has used the dark
to deepen what you made wan – his craft.
‘We can never be solo. We can only co-exist.
You will always be mixed with others, White:
Black, Yellow or Brown – until overrated
and overused to the point of a faded mess.’
And as the words were only spoken just,
the palette was dumped into a draining sink.
It was scrubbed clean of any lingering colours
dark or light, he started a fresh batch of mixes
for a painting new with colours not like the previous.