I wish that, philosophically,
I could commune with my dear wife . . .
Instead, we biologically
Against all odds, amidst the strife,
Pursue one therapeutic end
Where pleasures, with relief, descend.

I wish we could discuss the arts—
Talk poetry and invoke the Muse.
In place of that, by fits and starts,
We thrill to what we can’t refuse:
Theory made practice, sweaty, hot…
Conjecture spurned for what we’ve got.

One who heard us was a woman named Lydia,
from the city of Thyatira, a seller of purple goods, 
who was a worshiper of God.        Acts 16:14 [ESV]

I’ll say it straight to Alice Walker’s face:
Veil for prostitutes and genderqueer beasts—
A color fit for hierophants and priests;
Symbol of both the decadent and base.
A hue unfit for tablecloths at feasts . . .
Scarlet is regal. Blue, too, has its place.
Let Thyatiran Lydia state her case,
But purple celebrates strange swelling yeasts.
No fault in bordering on indigo
As long as chroma stays within the blue.
But mix it up with red? Don’t do it. No.
Yet, good contrast to yellow’s golden grail . . .
What says the holy humble Murex snail?
Feel me: PURPLE is not the way to go.

PROMPT #17:
write a poem that repeats or focuses on a single color.

70 A.D.

History comes back to bite us
As we learn of the temple and Titus.
When it’s Rome against Jews,
There is one side must lose—
Though the outcome may fail to delight us.

135 A.D.

Another rebellion: once more
They attempted to settle the score.
Since “messiah” Bar-Kokhba
(Right up to the Nakba)
The region relapses to war.

PROMPT 20: write a poem that recounts a historical event.
Draw on your memory, encyclopedias, history books, or primary documents.

[…in an article in the New Republic, Randolph S. Bourne urged his readers, “You must hear Mr. Lindsay recite his own ‘Congo,’ his body tense and swaying, his hands keeping time like an orchestral leader to his own rhythms, his tone changing color in response to noise and savage imagery of the lines, the riotous picture of the negro mindset against the weird background of the primitive Congo, the ‘futurist’ phrases crashing through the scene like a glorious yell—you must hear this yourself, and learn what an arresting, exciting person this new indigenous Illinois poet is.” Dennis Camp related that Harriet Monroe, founder and editor of Poetry magazine, once warned Lindsay not to “frighten the ladies” with his loud delivery at one poetry reading, to which he replied, “still I must roar.” ]

extract from Poetry Foundation bio of VACHEL  LINDSAY