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