When I am famous,
I will have only one rule, and that will be:
no black.
no black picture on the back cover of my book
no black poetry
no black scarf
no black heels
no black hair, cut short, curly.
no black stare, looking down in some thoughtful contemplaation of death captured
by black and white film through a black lens
rolling, twisted by pale ghangly fingers, the antenneas of a distinguished photographer
who dons a raven-woven turtleneck, matched by sable argyle socks and stygian-framed glasses.
No inky blobs of sorrow, no ebony journal, no obsidian earings that frame a face of slate-dotted pupils.
Not even a starless night will droop from my fountain pen,
which will be
raw umber, asparagus, or thistle.
This piece is so funny April. I love that you want to steer clear of the stereotype that all poets or writers wear black clothing, berets, and live in coffee shops. I don’t even know where that cliché started but it needs to stop. I definitely will not be that kind of writer because I usually hate wearing black (with certain exceptions of course.) I love that towards the end you divert from using the word black and really used your imagination to come up with other ways to describe the color. I think the constant use of black is a nice contrast from the second half of the poem. But no black heels?
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