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A Poem by:

Eithne Cavanagh

Colourful Bar


Copyright shall at all times remain vested in the Author. No part of the work shall be used, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the Author's express written consent.

The colours of my new paintbox are labelled

not just red, blue, yellow, green,

but scarlet lake, ultramarine and ochre.

The garish tin shines silkysmooth

as the inside of an eggshell.


Happy paintings decorate the walls

- houses with five windows and a door.

Sentry flowers line paths, and roundy faces

smile broader than a yellow laughing sun.


My favourite colours are deeply cratered.

The lid becomes a viscous mess

of muddy daubs like blurred ideals

where hatred spreads molasses-thick on streets.


The sun no longer lights naively tinted flowers.

Beneath the cobalt sky, an umber land absorbs

innocent blood: wounded children wearing blue,

red and yellow, sob - half rescued from the rubble.


In the search for truth I long to use

clean primary washes for a pleasing picture,

but choose from sombre palette

shades of khaki, the olive greens and browns

journaling poverty, warfare, grief.


Eithne Cavanagh
Copyright © 2002

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