Is a rose by any other name, the same? Does a name matter?
Each week The Sunday Whirl invites writers to write a poem or short prose using some or all of the “wordle’s” 12 words. This week it is:
In the Scheme of Things
In the scheme of things I have
how each color was named;
from the simple and
to the ornate and euphoric,
such as alizarin crimson,
which is also quite frivolous,
and has an audible affect
like a tenderly blown kiss coupled
with a slow wink.
But who created the name caput mortuum?
A gnarled brown.
An apocalyptic description,
Was the hand of God involved?
could not have named colors. I
have no inkling
about these matters. I
would have been very speedy in
Give me this one.
Give me that one.
Give me the one over there.
If there were more than three colors,
I might have said,
Throw me the one that looks like poppies,
or toss me the one that’s like an apple.
How about that strange one, yes,
the one that looks like turnip roots.
If I felt particularly erudite, I
might have said, pass me that one that looks like
a reflecting mountain lake,
or like my grandmother’s wiry bobby pinned hair,
or maybe, even,
the one that looks like my baby son’s arse,
But I could never create such figurative or literary names
as: heliotrope, icterine, phlox, verdigris or wenge.
And as an epilogue to this whole affair,
I’ll try to stick with the primary, secondary, and tertiary colors,
of which there are thirteen, if you throw in white;
thirteen like the apostles, if you throw in Jesus;
thirteen like numbers on the face of a clock,
if you throw in the eternal return to the thirteenth hour.
But mysticism was never my forte,
and that’s why I couldn’t name colors,
or call things other than what they are;
which is simply this, or that,
or the other.