Back in high school (the late 1980s, if you must know … lol), I had to do a research paper on Emily Dickinson that I absolutely detested, but I’ve always had a fond appreciation for her poetry. Several years later (July 6, 2001), I was listening to Symphonic Pink Floyd after getting dumped and — for whatever insane reason — came up with this interesting poem. I’ve no idea why, but it remains one of my favorites, even though it is nothing like anything else I’ve ever written.
what would emily do if she fell in love with pink
emily never was a femme-fatale when it came to winning hearts of men
all she ever did was write about her pent-up, unrequited feelings
subtly, mind you, so they’d never guess her dysfunctional emotions
she penned poems of nature, of death, of life, of love – even
but the make-believe existence she lived on paper didn’t prepare her for pink.
the color floyed emily’s senses, made her fragile little heart thrum to the beat
pink’s symphonic recitations inspired her to throw her busy pen to the wind
in its stead, she picked flowers, lots of flowers, and held them tighly abreast
she took in their scents as she danced around the meadow from which they were plucked
but it was the pink flowers that held her fancy most, wafting through her nostrils with their cloying smell.
the names, they did not matter, for emily was entranced by pink’s many shades
hot pink, light pink, soft pink, mauve, raspberry – she loved them every one
the color of romance in full bloom enraptured her dreary new england soul
such a joyous display, she knew, was frowned upon by her rigid forefathers
still, she could not resist the pull pink had on her otherwise prim and proper demeanor.
emily’s normally pale, seemingly life-drained cheeks turned pink from her outdoor excursion
her lips, chapped year after year by the harsh eastern winters, even took on a pinkish hue
she shivered as she skipped and pranced about the meadow with her treasures in tow
but the numbing feel of that cool spring morning brought with it comfort for her, and her alone
and she reveled in the pleasure she derived from her passionate love affair with pink.
emily so desired to capture the moment she fell in love with pink for all time
but neither pen nor paper could properly describe the joy she felt inside
pink was far too beautiful, too important an emotion to clinically put to words
so she memorized every facet of pink that she could to save for a dreary day
and she smelled the flowers one last time, bittersweet in their randomly picked disarray.
later, when emily sat in a rocking chair staring wistfully out of her bedroom window
she wondered what it was about pink that caused such a stir all the way to her soul
was it merely the romantic connotations associated, throughout history, with the color
or was it the music she thought she heard as she filled her arms and danced with abandonment
later, she thought, later, as she picked up her pen and paper and began her dissection.
emily never went back to the meadow for fear of tainting her love for the color pink
and so the flowers eventually wilted where she left them – jilted – in a scattered heap
at home, she stayed, writing page after page, trying, in vain, to regain the moment
but it wasn’t the same, emily found, as she reverted back to her reclusive, introverted ways
and longingly watched pink fade into the biting bitterness of another winter day.