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Colours of Love



Who can deny hubris when writing of love?

Who can define its quality, its chemistry?

Would some kind of litmus test explain

elusive feelings which at times glow red,

then purple, bright or melancholy blue?

Words, colours, values, all are suspect,

inviting paradox, equivocation.


Shakespeare chose to depict his lovers

through the prism of a midsummer dream

from which they wake in a dark wood,

each with a fresh and personal vision.

Such is Helena discovering her lover:

        Mine own and not mine own

And Hermia finds her world grown double.


The huntsman’s horn has roused them.

Now gaiety prevails. Theseus, warrior king,

commands a play to celebrate his marriage.

Violence is banished. His choice?

a play of hot ice and magical snow:

Pyramus and Thisbe, a story

of tragical mirth, a concord of discord. 


So the men of Athens take the stage

to entertain their betters, but Flute,

the bellows mender, first bewails

the absence of weaver Bottom, a sweet-

voiced paragon, who would play all parts,

even the role of Thisbe and a gentle Lion.


Bottom enters with a dream to tell

but decides perhaps it would

not shine in telling? Or did he

keep it to himself from hubris,

forgetting his partner in the vision,

the Fairy Queen, Titania, who sees

the dream of love quite otherwise?


Yet Bottom and his fellows carry wisdom.

In the scene they lack an actor’s skill

but outshine the lovers watching

who mock but lack the wit to see

themselves as asinine, mirrored in

the play where only Theseus’ bride

can appre-comprehend a meaning.


Does this play say that only Fools,

male and female touch the sense

of a tangled dual world, who see

loving music in a colour wheel,

red, blue, purple, green and grey,

a constant litmus mixed for all,

tragical, comical, wise man, fool?.

 

Some necromancy lingers in the loving.

So do gifted image-makers, poets, painters,

writers, actors, lovers, play astrologer,

pondering perhaps on love and adoration,

staring through a dark glass at the stars,

hidden by the sun’s light in the day,

a hand on Newton’s prism resting.


©Terry Hodgson2024

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