from VISIONS
The Poetry of Susan Budd
The Blind Painter
“I listened to music while I painted.
Since I don’t paint anymore,
I don’t listen to music anymore.
The music inspired my art.
It brought the images to life.
My paintings were
the transubstantiation
of sound
into color.
Each note had its own hue.
There were Beethoven blues
and rainbows of jazz.
There were sunset orange octaves
that you had to hear to behold.
And rock, oh how it electrified my brush
like the copulations of savage gods,
how the paint flowed
like the blood of sacrificial virgins,
how it filled the canvas
with bold pink and orange Hendrix,
with the psychedelic voodoo colors
of the Night Tripper,
with ‘China Cat Sunflower’ blends
of yellow and gold.
But I can’t see the music anymore.
It’s all black to me now,
black and silent.”
from Black
All space was empty.
There were no stars.
There was no light.
It was the universe before the creation,
before the divine fiat,
before the Big Bang sent the colors flying in all directions,
becoming suns and moons and earths in infinite variety,
becoming alive and blossoming into a prism of wondrous possibility.
It was the universe before the beginning,
a universe devoid of human passion,
a new palette,
ready to hold the paints that the creator would mix
and blend to give life to his worlds.
It was an untouched canvas,
a tabula rasa,
an invitation to human invention,
to the godlike creativity inherent in man.
from Purple
Purple is the most lascivious color.
Lucien dreamed in lavender and pink,
in lilac hues of Kandinsky colors,
in fuchsia fantasies and shades of mauve.
Explosions of purple filled his mind,
enpurpled his awareness like crushed grapes,
like wine.
Violet rhapsodies pulsed through his blood,
through his heart,
through every quivering artery
while resplendent symphonies of color
ravished his forlorn soul
and left him breathless
and dazzled
and aching for more.
from Yellow
Dionysian lions lounged majestically under the equatorial sun.
They yawned
and stretched their thick clawed paws
and shook their tawny manes.
The swollen yellow sun pulsed with radiant heat.
Its golden light was almost blinding.
Lucien tried to shield his eyes with his hand.
He admired the solar gods lolling in the African grass,
relishing the aftertaste of blood,
sweet antelope blood,
savory gazelle blood,
warm human blood,
and lazily working the delicate ribbons of flesh
from between their teeth
with their long dark tongues.
Lucien felt no fear,
for his was a leonine soul
and he felt a primal kinship with the bronze-gold monarchs,
the sun kings of the savanna.
Then the dream became lucid and Lucien could see
the cosmos unfolding at the dawn of time.
He could see the haloes forming around the pregnant suns.
He could feel the quickening globes of animated fire
straining to be born.
from Orange
Lucien reclined in the sand at the event horizon of time.
The coral wasteland extended farther than the eye could see
and the apricot-colored dunes were inviting.
Obscene lizards darted across the mesa,
keen and quick.
Carrion birds circled overhead,
squawking of extraterrestrial geometry.
A jackrabbit versed in aboriginal astronomy and shamanistic cosmology,
voiceless keeper of the secrets of the solar system,
was chased and caught by an insolent wolf.
The vultures waited for the bones.
They waited with the patience of the Desert Fathers.
The rain had still not come
and the throats of the desert creatures were filled with dust.
Lucien lay on his back
with his mouth agape
and waited for rain.
Centuries passed.
He was dying of thirst.
“I listened to music while I painted.
Since I don’t paint anymore,
I don’t listen to music anymore.
The music inspired my art.
It brought the images to life.
My paintings were
the transubstantiation
of sound
into color.
Each note had its own hue.
There were Beethoven blues
and rainbows of jazz.
There were sunset orange octaves
that you had to hear to behold.
And rock, oh how it electrified my brush
like the copulations of savage gods,
how the paint flowed
like the blood of sacrificial virgins,
how it filled the canvas
with bold pink and orange Hendrix,
with the psychedelic voodoo colors
of the Night Tripper,
with ‘China Cat Sunflower’ blends
of yellow and gold.
But I can’t see the music anymore.
It’s all black to me now,
black and silent.”
from Black
All space was empty.
There were no stars.
There was no light.
It was the universe before the creation,
before the divine fiat,
before the Big Bang sent the colors flying in all directions,
becoming suns and moons and earths in infinite variety,
becoming alive and blossoming into a prism of wondrous possibility.
It was the universe before the beginning,
a universe devoid of human passion,
a new palette,
ready to hold the paints that the creator would mix
and blend to give life to his worlds.
It was an untouched canvas,
a tabula rasa,
an invitation to human invention,
to the godlike creativity inherent in man.
from Purple
Purple is the most lascivious color.
Lucien dreamed in lavender and pink,
in lilac hues of Kandinsky colors,
in fuchsia fantasies and shades of mauve.
Explosions of purple filled his mind,
enpurpled his awareness like crushed grapes,
like wine.
Violet rhapsodies pulsed through his blood,
through his heart,
through every quivering artery
while resplendent symphonies of color
ravished his forlorn soul
and left him breathless
and dazzled
and aching for more.
from Yellow
Dionysian lions lounged majestically under the equatorial sun.
They yawned
and stretched their thick clawed paws
and shook their tawny manes.
The swollen yellow sun pulsed with radiant heat.
Its golden light was almost blinding.
Lucien tried to shield his eyes with his hand.
He admired the solar gods lolling in the African grass,
relishing the aftertaste of blood,
sweet antelope blood,
savory gazelle blood,
warm human blood,
and lazily working the delicate ribbons of flesh
from between their teeth
with their long dark tongues.
Lucien felt no fear,
for his was a leonine soul
and he felt a primal kinship with the bronze-gold monarchs,
the sun kings of the savanna.
Then the dream became lucid and Lucien could see
the cosmos unfolding at the dawn of time.
He could see the haloes forming around the pregnant suns.
He could feel the quickening globes of animated fire
straining to be born.
from Orange
Lucien reclined in the sand at the event horizon of time.
The coral wasteland extended farther than the eye could see
and the apricot-colored dunes were inviting.
Obscene lizards darted across the mesa,
keen and quick.
Carrion birds circled overhead,
squawking of extraterrestrial geometry.
A jackrabbit versed in aboriginal astronomy and shamanistic cosmology,
voiceless keeper of the secrets of the solar system,
was chased and caught by an insolent wolf.
The vultures waited for the bones.
They waited with the patience of the Desert Fathers.
The rain had still not come
and the throats of the desert creatures were filled with dust.
Lucien lay on his back
with his mouth agape
and waited for rain.
Centuries passed.
He was dying of thirst.
