Colour me senseless

My lexicon is monochrome
delineated in ink and tongued
only with sound. No taste there
nor jot of colour in sight
how I wish for permeable partitions
to the cortex. Instead I must merely imagine

each letter as a hue: colour coded by sight
but with closed eyes, the very annunciation
bursting like powdered paint behind the retina
and the spelling of my name, dotted like a pointillist portrait:

L a shock of electric blue, less thrilling in diminutive yet pretty as a starling’s egg
A an alabaster, pillared temple, cross-barred with marble but lower-cased, a falls like ripest apricot
u in somewhat understated mode, inks itself in sepia of vintage seaside postcards
r resonates pink then orange, settling to a cushion of crushed crimson
when a returns it fleshes out in yellow-orange succulence

And words are not mere alloys
(else letter mix would meld as brown confetti). Each in its own
discreteness, a sounding board for cup to overflow puce
or Ombre shrimp-pinked violins before the music
begins and a chameleon plays pitch perfect
in tinted tonal mode.

The poet knows best
writing and reciting sounds
and all the senses

After I wrote this poem, I discovered Bernadette Sheridan, a synaesthete who has created coloured blocks for letters as she sees them – this is her version of my name. Try yours here

Poem that turns words into colours for Grace's MTB prompt: Synaesthesia