There was a time, when all I could paint was black and white stripes,
Brushed, vertical wipes of downward colour.
The pinched thin stripe,
The fat full stripe and those in-between stripes.
There was a time when all I could paint was black and white polka dots,
The tiny, full stop dot,
The big fat rain-drop dot and those in-between dots.
Then, one day, black and white just got up and left,
Not a dicky-bird, not even a postcard,
No black, no white.
Then later and far off I hear ‘blue’ singing its head off
And the sound of colour walks by and waves.
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I find this poem totally captivating, so light and imaginative.
I love the way the change from black and white to colour is used as a metaphor for an artistic awakening of spiritual proportion and the way the shades and colours become characters in the story. You move from the poor little ‘pinched thin stripe’ to the richness of ‘blue singing its head off’ Those last two lines finish in a beautiful crescendo. I fully support Bob’s comments!