Speak not to me of Persimmon
Speak not to me of Persimmon
Drawing me into her warm embrace, seeking me out slowly, kneading me
I was lulled by those ever-changing tones — one part orange, one part russet
one part blazing sunset, one part mellow moonrise
one part savage, one part romantic, one part feral, one part pliant.
Persimmon, that hue whose dulcet tones wind around my brush
works her way onto my canvas, who weaves her wily ways into my heart and
leaves a burning gash where I meant only hushed tones.
Speak not to me of this Jezebel, she who is all heedless beauty
Who has no desire to leave, who haunts my studio and
makes me tardy, keeping me away from home and hearth
Whose tones I look to balance with Taupe, Cream, slate Grey
Persimmon who said she would flow with the seasons and never go out of style.
Who said her hue was eternal, who whispered sweet nothings to my sturdy brushes and made them wilt with shame.
Not for the faint hearted, she said. But then I never thought I was faint hearted
How the mighty fall.
Speak not to me of this mischief maker
Who turns me into someone I don’t know
Who says ‘close your eyes and say what you think
with your brushes and watch your canvas catch fire.
How smoothly she crept into the studio — an innocent stroke
then a wee bit at the edge, and before I knew it, the deed was done.
You won’t regret it, she said.
Who won’t fall for this warm, inviting shade, this fulsomeness.
I banished her, even her memory, singed her
out from my heart, scoured her from my brushes
I thought I was done with that midsummer madness
Yet I find myself pausing, watching
In the shadows of an evening
In the silence of the studio
Did I hear a whisper
is that a fleeting glimpse
Of fiery red, of ever-changing orange, of breezy rust
Who is that prim little dot in the corner
Just evening shadows.
I cannot get rid of this twinge
I tell myself I need the peace and quiet
The orderliness of the paints
The cleanliness of the brushes
None of that coquetry now
My canvases are balanced
The colours as they should be
All form and beauty and perfectness
Who wants gay abandon when you can have faultless work?
I cannot get rid of this twinge
Speak not to me of
Speak not to me of Persimmon.
