Afraid of Colour - Jan 11 2023

 

Afraid of Colour

Jan 11 2023

Yes, I’m afraid of colour.

The house painted

in shades of beige

and gauzy pastels,

the car generic grey.

And I dress in navy blue;

a loosely fitting ensemble

of unstylish clothes,

complete with black shoes

and faded socks.

Occasionally

I'll brave a whimsical tie

with a splash of something bright.

Is it because of how I was raised?

Taught

to keep my head down,

affect modesty,

be properly self-effacing?

The climate?

Here, in the land of long winter nights

overcast skies

and half the year

under snow and ice

where we dress for basic survival.

No loud Hawaiian shirts.

No colourful peasant costume.

No zaftig women

laughing and smiling,

proudly draped

in lushly tropical folds.

Or could it be my own indifference?

If clothes make the man

then I am still unformed

and without much promise.

Couldn't imagine wearing

a sari, dashiki

babariga, boubou.

Instead, I slump about

in a dark overcoat,

scuffed boots, stained with salt,

and monochrome clothes

you'd never notice.

I ghost through the world

invisibly,

walking stiffly

with my head down,

hands 

jammed in my pockets,

so even my body doesn't unwind

take up space

catch the eye.

Just the type

who will one day go wild,

break out

of his buttoned-down persona

and surprise everyone.

A glass bottle

you can't see inside,

the pressure building-up

before suddenly exploding.

The kind you need to look out for.

The quiet guy next door.

The person

whom everyone said

they'd least expect this of.

Never would have imagined

the neighbours told the press

in their moment of celebrity,

crowding hard against

the yellow tape.

All his passion

shoved down deep inside;

where there's a darkness

you could have seen coming

if you'd only bothered to look.

This began in a lighthearted way, making a little fun of myself. I thought that at some point the poem might turn to personal reinvention: the sort of thing that can happen as one gets older, braver, less self-conscious; unconstrained by convention, bosses, and expectations.

That it ultimately took a dark turn has me feeling defensive, as if I might be seen as a mass murderer about to explode. And so I feel obliged to remind the reader that I’m not writing autobiography. It's much more that I envy those who have no compunction about dressing with colour and style. I would like to, as well. I would like to be that person . . . even though I’m not. So far, anyway. I haven't nearly enough interest or ability, and too much inertia. Not to mention am sadly lacking the nerve to risk such a bold transformation!