Nun-like in her robes of indigo,
the violet may well have taken the vow.
(Melinda Smith, ‘Safina. I. Rabi’a. I watch him pass below my window’, Southerly 76.3)
She loved to read poetry and when she got a keepsake from Bertha Supple of that lovely confession album with the coralpink cover to write her thoughts in she laid it in the drawer of her toilettable which, though it did not err on the side of luxury, was scrupulously neat and clean. It was there she kept her girlish treasures trove, the tortoiseshell combs, her child of Mary badge, the whiterose scent, the eyebrowleine, her alabaster pouncetbox and the ribbons to change when her things came home from the wash and there were some beautiful thoughts written in it in violet ink that she bought in Hely’s of Dame Street for she felt that she too could write poetry if she could only express herself like that poem that appealed to her so deeply that she had copied out of the newspaper she found one evening round the potherbs.
We should not be interrogated about the exact words used in a conversation or the precise colour of the sky on any particular day. Our best efforts may turn up violet, when our mother insists on vermillion.
(Kristina Olsson, ‘On writing Boy, Lost’, Southerly 75.2)
The river, when there is sun, offers glints of light amidst the green; the cliffs colored violet in the dusk and red like embers at dawn; and higher up, Ucul, and down below, Cerro del Diablo, and along the tortuous horizontal slope, the blue methylene triangle of the reservoir behind the dam, forever advancing.
(Robert Arlt ‘Ester Primavera’, tr. Lucas Lyndes, Contrappasso 8)