Transliteration of a Sightless Severini

Transliteration of a Sightless Severini

By R. C. McMenamin

Riding on trains,

On my way to University,

Years ago, I befriended Paul and

Goldie, soft-brushed Goldie, his seeing-eye dog.

“Blind from birth,” he said.

I tried to imagine. I tried to feel,

Vastly different, eyes closed.

Because he had never seen he felt more,

When he listened, he heard everything.

Riding on trains,

On his way to work,

Years of being ignored by the sighted.

Giggles, whispers, the shaking of the train,

Blank eyes he’d never see but felt,

In irony, he stopped wearing classic black lensed glasses,

Vindictively giving the world back,

Blind eyes, because that is

What the world gave him.

Righteous indignation flared herringbone blue in me,

On long train rides, I vowed to be better.

Yearning to show him, the earth brown world still,

Gave a crap about what happened to him.

But I knew it would have to come from my reef blue eyes

I had to care. I had to move past the

Vacuumed kraft brown existence of likeness.

Because he asked, I began describing,

What I could see.

Rusted cars of Volant Coral- that felt- I closed my eyes,

Only, feel, taste, touch, hear.

“You feel the smooth slate gray metal,

Gritty craters that taste like Copper Contoured pennies,

But sound like the puttering hums of Brisk blue-collar,

Intermezzos that may never crescendo on lined pages,

Vivace beating guttural dark begging, wait--

Blackness, you understand.

What of Whiteness or light?” I ask.

“Really, I do understand,

Often, I see what I think is light,

You see the Citron sun; I see only the,

Glossing difference of slightly less

Black.” He says, While soft-brushing Goldie’s back fur.

I ask if he can see the light of the window,

“Vaguely, a slightly less dark shape,” he says.

Because I want to see, I close my eyes.

When I turn to the window, it bleeds blurred, like fuzzed leathered scarlet.

Reading for his forest green darkness, I hear so much more,

Our train turns up to a full wide-ruled volume,

Yelling whispers of a conversation,

Grasping at hints of a Persian lilac romance, a Myrtle green argument,

Bellowing the conductor, dandelion sings stop names, hiding their stories.

Isolating the scents: fumes, powder pink of Loves Baby Soft, wet dog fur,

Violently aggressive Drakkar Noir, someone’s egg Mc-something.

But the taste is overpowered by the lemon green,

Wad of gum tucked in my mid-palate ridge.

Riding along, I comment on the leaves,

Octobering the trees to all new rainbows of colors.

“You know, I have no concept of what colors look like,” he joked.

“God, how do you explain color?” I whined out loud.

Because explaining sight to the sighted is hard slate gray work.

I saw red first on the anthocyanin leaves, as chlorophyll split,

Vermilioning the blazed Maples into a symphony for the eyes.

But I had to find the words. Eyes Strobing: open cover, close cover.

Witness senses, define, describe, feel, taste, smell, hear. Transcribe.

“Red tastes just like a summer strawberry, dotted scarlet, dripping juice.

Or the feel of a woman’s lips, plump, fresh on your cheek.

You can hear red, right now beating fire in the train’s churning wheels.

Glowing warm embers of a fire that knows not to hide.

Burning like a sparkler in the hand of a twirling little girl.

It shouts like Bordeaux on the tongue used to a Bourganvillea Blush.

Vacillating Smells between Cranberry and spiced apples.

But have I explained it?” He considers, “surprisingly well, actually, but,

What is your favorite color? Can you explain that?”

“Really?” I laugh. Blue- Blue is my favorite color and hard to define.

Oceans are blue in the distance, but when you feel them, they turn green.

“You see,” I start. “But I don’t!” He interrupts, chuckling-- head shaking.

“Go again”- he nods. I close my eyes. What does blue feel like?

“Blue feels like Velvet Underground or Bob Dylan singing sultry poetics.

Icy, freezing-hot tears of winter on wind-burned cheeks.

Vagabond souls on socialites, Hydrangea bushes with hope withering.

Blue like my eyes, speckling lined gray, if you get close enough

Waltzing boards to the taste of briny, beach air mixing with cotton candy.”

Rallied by his smile. I speak through closed eyes.

“Or like the sapphire sky of October—Brisk needing fuzzy sweaters.

Yearning, like the crushing blue wave of a boy you have never kissed.

Growing into a woman who knows the safer promise of cheek kissing.”

Brakes squeal, the train rounds that last corner before I must pack up.

I hear my stop called; Paul knows it, too. I pet Goldie goodbye.

“Very soon, you’re leaving.” Paul bows his head, Bob Dylaning Blues.

Bouncing up, I turn to say goodbye; I kiss for the first time his cheek.

“Wait, thank you for red, blue,” he calls. I turn back once more.

Balancing myself to the backwashing

wave pull of the slowing train.

“When I walk away, pay attention

to what you feel; you’ll know yellow.”

But instead, as I stepped off the train,

I felt-tasted puckered lemons on my lips

When I turned, I felt the tender yellow breeze

of the golden morning sashay away.