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Periwinkle

Don’t know that I was on the spectrum, no,
But I was weird. I read too much and played
Pretend too much. My mind too often strayed
To places so interior they’d glow
With something strange and Christmas-y, a slow
And simple light, its luminance deep-laid
With resonances primal, ready-made.
The very simplest thing and off I’d go:
My periwinkle crayon (on the day
I memorized the box). Its dulcet blue
Within the creamy wax enfolded me
In something good and beautiful and true
That held me there yet pointed far away
And touched the summer with eternity.

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Jeffrey Essmann is an essayist and poet living in New York. His poetry has appeared in numerous magazines and literary journals, among them Agape Review, America Magazine, Dappled Things, the St. Austin Review, U.S. Catholic, Grand Little Things, Heart of Flesh Literary Journal, and various venues of the Benedictine monastery with which he is an oblate. He is editor of the Catholic Poetry Room page on the Integrated Catholic Life website.

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5 Responses

  1. Gigi Ryan

    Dear Jeffrey,

    This is a delightful poem that gives me a visual of a kaleidoscope – seemingly simple, yet, when looking within, complex and beautiful. Thank you for this lovely periwinkle view.

    Gigi

    Reply
  2. Roy Eugene Peterson

    My magic crayon in my day a long time ago was Magenta, likely before the advent of your new color. I can imagine the effect of Periwinkle on your imagination as you mentioned in your poem.

    Reply
  3. Janice Canerdy

    Your vividly descriptive sonnet conveys a moving and powerful message
    about the young, imaginative, intelligent child or youth that gets labeled
    “weird”~~often by those who are not as smart!

    Reply
  4. Cheryl A Corey

    Your lovely sonnet took me back to the 1960s, when my grandparents kept a box of crayons (sharpener included!) at their house for my visits. Colors like periwinkle and wisteria were so special to me that I used them sparingly. Thanks for the read, Jeffrey.

    Reply
  5. Margaret Coats

    A child’s voice among many colors, searching for his unique place “on the spectrum,” if he has one. This is almost psychedelic, Jeffrey, but so is human individuality. Are we not all “ready-made,” not in the sense of factory crafted according to a common design, but with some “primal resonance” displaying the good and beautiful and true? Those three transcendentals move the poem out of the crayon box and beyond. Naturally the “pointing far away” happens in the summer, when children have so much leisure it may seem unlimited. Excellent reflection for the time of year!

    Reply

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