In that he knew the purity of colours, he saw bright <br />And clear through all the well-swept corridors of his mind; <br />No wounding uncertainty came there. Only the fine lines <br />Of splendid, accurate endeavour. Masterpieces of their kind <br />Were made, born with no messy afterbirth, no rusty pain. <br />In at the door came small and discrete things, shapely, with no stain. <br />These he collected, stored and built, within the chambers of his brain <br />Carved straight and sharp for this purpose, into lists and squares. The aim <br />Was always abstract, angular. Planes were shaved. Patterns grew <br />Without the aid of blood or xylem. He tolerated what he knew <br />Of other ways: his was no fanatic’s moral hygiene..When the wind blew <br />Untidiness through his window, he merely picked it up and threw <br />It, with some nonchalance, away. It did not trouble him, Until <br />One day a foot trod on the threshold. Above, two notable eyes. A hand with skill. <br />Sought his instruction. And suddenly there were veins, eyes. He looked his fill. <br />They would not be encoded. Suddenly violet bled into rose. Bird shit on the sill <br />Of the window rested there unwashed. Tumescence became something more, <br />Than could be worked off and forgotten. Demanding and sore <br />Headed he became a new man and did not know himself, nor <br />What to do. Only he knew that he wanted. Through his core <br />The repetitious urgencies played like gales in autumn..Soon he saw <br />His new apprentice move away, find easier friendships. So he shut his door. <br />Now nothing could get in. Soon new patterns, jagged, colourless, gored <br />And scratched with teeth upon a snarling board torn from the floor <br />Of his thought reached the world and were liked, were celebrated with a roar <br />Of critical delight. And then quite suddenly there came no more.<br /><br />Richard Blanch<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/artist-3/
