A, red, E, pink, I, pale blue, U, purple, O, white
Blocky, tough things, slipping through their shades,
Tacked onto the ends of words, their colors mysterious,
Wearing jackets of sticky ink, typewriter-fresh.

A, red, glossy, the surface of apples,
Or brick-brown, smashed in the middle of a word;
A is neutral, earthy, or fresh-blood red,
Or colorless, something tacked on for effect,
But never soft or weak; A has strength.

E, dusty pink, the color of tongues,
Or of fingertips, or the blushing of cheeks;
E is a pale flower, not fully blooming,
But dying, before its prime; it is weak,
Influenced with ease, an extra letter without the syllable.

I, pale, smooth and sleek, tough as nails,
The color of icicles and crystal,
I is winter-pale cheeks or the sky, eaten by clouds.
It absorbs colors from consonants shamelessly
But keeps its own clear paleness, a sharp thing.

U, a mysterious vowel, soft purple,
The color of the unknown, mermaids, dragons’ scales,
U is old, dried flowers and ladies’ perfumes
And dresses made with lavender cloth.
Not the strongest letter, but with a mind of its own.

O, white, fleshy, a prayer,
The color of snow and a priest’s robes,
O is alone, but surrounded by others,
A barrier between colors, pure as clouds,
Strong enough to keep to itself.

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I wrote this after I got a bit annoyed reading the Arthur Rimbaud poem Voyelles (Vowels), not because it was wrong to me, but because he didn't actually have synesthesia, he just wanted to imagine what it'd be like. Well, vowels aren't grand things, but they have their colors and sometimes they even have a bit of personality, something consonants never really have. I realize my poem doesn't follow the same format as the original; it doesn't rhyme or have meter or have the same number of lines, but I just used the Rimbaud poem as a jumping-off point, to write my own thing.