Johnny: In time you’ll see that this is the best thing, Loretta.
Loretta: In time you’ll drop dead, and I’ll come to your funeral in a red dress!
— Loretta Castorini to Johnny Cammareri after he breaks off their engagement. From by John Patrick Shanley
Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.
— Sylvia Plath, “Lady Lazarus”
Rose, where did you get that Red?
— Chip Wareing, Fifth Grade, PS 61, New York City
Red has been roiling around in my head the past two weeks, and it’s no wonder. It’s February: heart-month, love-month, Valentine’s month, all abstractions given visual power through association with that most vibrant of colors.
February Red (or Feb Red, for short) is a paradox. It makes sense that here, “in the bleak mid-winter, ” against the backdrop of gray skies, bony branches, and dun snow, we crave this color. The eye delights in the flash of the cardinal amid the oak’s “bare ruined choirs, ” the reckless poinsettia blooming long past Christmas, the red of the horizon as “sunset fadeth in the west.” Our winter hearts are starved for red, and we consume it greedily.
Red speaks to us directly, without the agency of words. The most incarnational of hues, it is the stuff we’re made of. Elizabeth Bishop, in “The Fish, ” after she captures her prize, imagines “the dramatic reds and blacks / of his shiny entrails, ” knowing they are the colors of her own. Red, she nearly says, is the language of the flesh.
Red is Power, the nerve and the verve to speak your mind. The soprano of the opera, the first violin of the orchestra, the Madonna of the feste, the lead in the play, the star of Broadway—red is the One who won’t be ignored, the One who insists she not be missed.
Red has a voice: “Beware anger, passion, warfare.” As Sylvia warns (with her fiery red hair) rising from the gray ashes, “I eat men like air.” Red is the release of energy that can create or destroy, and there is a strange beauty even in its destruction. (I think of the famous beginning of Francis Ford Coppola’s Apocalypse Now—the powerful images of the green jungle exploding in clouds of red fury against the turquoise sky as Jim Morrison sings ominously, “This is the end.”)
Red is the explosion of life that gives the lie to death; thus, Loretta’s threat to do the deed: wear a red dress to her former boyfriend’s funeral. What better way to say “I’m very much alive and very glad you’re dead” without ever speaking a word?
Red is Miracle, talisman and charm. I think of the celebrated “girl in the red coat” in the film Schindler’s List—an innocent child who is the only bit of color in a world of black and white. She is the life force the Nazis are bent on destroying, her red coat marking her as keeper of the sacred flame. The viewer’s (red) heart aches for her survival, knowing it is bound up with our own.
Red is Desire. Thus the schoolboy’s urgent question, “Rose, where did you get that Red?” He longs for a piece of that beauty (don’t we all?) and needs to know where in the world he can find it.
The Rose, of course, stays silent—
his question hanging in the air—
speaking our desire,
staving off despair.
(Think Loretta’s red dress.)
(Think Sylvia’s red hair.)
Post by Angela Alaimo O’Donnell, author of Saint Sinatra and Other Poems Photo by Noukka Signe. Creative Commons, via Flickr.
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L. L. Barkat says
Angela, so much to love here!
I feel like I could write ten poems just from playing with all the wonderful words you’ve set out.
Or I could just put your words into lines…
Red is
the explosion
of life that gives the lie
to death; thus,
Loretta’s threat to do
the deed: wear
a red dress
Angela Alaimo O'Donnell says
Thanks for posting this, Laura!
With Sylvia, Loretta, and Chip, anything is possible.
I’m suddenly thinking Acrostics– a series of R-E-D Haiku?
R ose in a red vase
E vanescent cloud & sun
D ay’s first blessings come.
Cheers & Happy Post-Feast of St. Valentine,
Angela
M.J. Graham says
It rises like the sun on a hot summer’s morn,
as the locus screams out his song buried in thorns,
Lace curtains paint fine details across the bedroom wall,
as its brilliance catches ablaze ignited by sunbeams fall,
Where does it comes from you inquire,
it comes from the pit of every woman’s desire,
Red is the color of love, war, and fire,
all are elements of a woman’s passion for her admired
Beth says
Where is my red?
I am wounded and I have lost my color
When did life leave me?
Why did red turn to grey?
I found red once
Stray, lost in wintery innocence
I was surprised
And I wanted to hide-
From red, or from myself
I am unsure
Sometimes I see this life-color
And it challenges me to be free
I think I will try
To remember
Where I last saw her
With smiles and love and beauty
A heart full of red
A world full of color
Kimberlee Conway Ireton says
I wish I had something intelligent to add here. I don’t. I just really liked this post, and wanted to say thanks for writing such a compelling portrait of red. =)
Connie@raise your eyes says
Red has a voice…and inspires this:
http://raiseyoureyes.dreamhosters.com/?p=393
Angela Alaimo O'Donnell says
Thank you, everyone, for your wondeful poems!
I love these lines (among others):
“It comes from the pit of every woman’s desire–
Red is the color of love, war, and fire.”
(@ MJ)
“A heartful of red.”
(@ Beth)
“Blue gray ash
crosses her brow
begins the Lenten fast.”
(@Connie)
To Kimberlee,
many thanks for your kindness (and intelligence)!
To George,
that red-dressed woman
must have been OUT of her mind.
I write to you all from Hong Kong today.
I’m just returned from a visit to the Great Buddha on Launtau Island
where I learned the virtues of color:
Green equals prosperity, Gold equals Royalty,but Red is the color lovers
wear when they wed, for Red is the hue of Happiness.
Happily Yours,
Angela