The Painter

In the trembling gold of the morning, the painter

Sought impressions of idle sky

Above halcyon meadow slashed with burnt red earth

And pale lotuses reflected in smooth glassy pool

He layered his canvas with tumultuous prussian blues

And when his precious landscape was done

He soaked his brushes and gazed at it but once

Then like the rest he shrouded it in black

Heart heavy, fingers stained, his watery eyes downcast

 

He painted fat ladies with plump arms and dimpled knees

Wrapped in red velvet, eyes hooded with coquetry

Deft strokes smoothing abundant curves without delight

As they sat brazenly for a masterpiece in gilded frame

Petulant lips swollen with crimson stain

And when the portraits were mounted on burnished walls

They clapped their soft hands, gasped and cried

The painter nodded and in his beguiling heart he sighed

 

He turned to surreal world of his masters’ fame

Trapping sullied forms in depths of muted pain

Illusions darker than the ones that lived in his head

Tubes of black pigment violently with purple met

To create ten-foot high visions in which he mocked himself

Yet, in cafes along the river they celebrated this glorious artist reborn

He doffed his cap, scratched his beard and remained sullenly withdrawn

 

Ten years slipped by, his genius he gave to the world

They bid millions of pounds to own a piece of his exalted soul

In galleries like temples they revered his work and life

Museums vied to own his disused inkwell and hog hair brushes alike

They framed his postcards; pinned frayed letters inside fragile glass cases

Trapped him in timelines and printed his fat ladies on ceramic vases

A decade later on a golden trembling morning he died; a gentle recluse

After waiting a lifetime for his beloved, elusive muse