October 17, 2005 - 11:24 am
Where’s that Windsor Newton I used to have?
And what’s happened to my will?
Black and white, Victorian simple, my will,
With edges unbroken, marks where to stop,
Sharp lines, shapes unfilled inside.
But touch the palette, there’s no unmixing;
Each lot spilling urgently into the other,
No separation, no self at all.
Yet I let them bleed, allowed this mix, this grey,
Yielding and filled with compromise,
Negotiations, little bargains.
And anyway, what was I expecting?
What did I think would happen?
Whatever it was, it wasn’t this – this
Intensity, profundity, complexity of tone;
I just didn’t count on blushing so much.
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