Purple is, for me, the color of poetry. But, of course, any poet can choose whatever color he might like it to be. Each time, while writing the first few lines of a poem I’m going to compose, should be dealt with on keeping to create a beauty that I can put colors to written words and to assume what my readers can possibly absorb from out of such a vague twist of language. Yet, no matter how far I went, it does not always follow. I will end up writing instead for the sake of it. If x is the flow of thought that wanders away and y is what the mind could best capture with and at, then poetry depends as much on immediacy of the release of these thoughts as on the quality of words used. Poetry should be the marriage of the primitive with the sophisticated.
Some things exist in the poet’s mind alone; poetry bridges that gap—something that connects the imaginary from real. It comes with investigating what you can present about, which is to limit the “searching” at some point, only to be lost to wherever the thoughts may take you. The beauty, as if the vanishing point of perspective in painting, radiates the same coherence from what it can distort more or the less of it, and as purple as poetry itself:
in a range of understood pages the words strung together.
the text: an outlining feature of the so-called die has been cast
in a word. words as symbols but also to understand
the function of such symbols.
or maybe the state of the mind—what one
can practice or imagine.
stalky print of something in this obscure the picture stretched between
yet licking a finger to turn a page.
not far away from it,
there’s this knitting together
to introduce, poet,
spell out the nameless bloom of a flower but, i’m sorry, this kind
of like overflow