Synesthesia

(for P. Gauguin)

 

Color, they say, has a music of its own.

Resonant reds, brassy yellows, cool blue.

You can hear it in your bones.

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Who needs salons, dull manifestos?

Tune the mind’s eye, let the brush flow.

Color, they say, has a music of its own.

 

Show me the point of commerce or coal,

Pursuits whose measures coarsen the soul.

You'll never feel them in your bones.

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And convention, that hoary refrain?

A tired old song sung again and again.

Ah, but color has a music of its own.

​

Pink-sand beaches, crimson seas, nut-brown

Beauties, a yellow Jesus on his knees —

You can feel them in your bones.

​

The holy mystery of Creation,

The blessèd release that is Death;

Color, they say, has a music of its own,

Listen close, you can hear it in your bones.