On days like this, when I've risen early and invited
the Muse and she, despite my pleadings, continues
to sleep and won't be roused, and I've stared
into the blank page
and heard my life ticking away,
I think about switching genres, nay, media...nay,
art forms. I'll just give up words,
I say to myself; I'll show 'em, I'll take up...
painting. Yes, I'll become a painter!
I can see me now in my studio,
a wide open capacious space
above the waves,
the whole place bathed in Northern Light
(it must be Northern Light, mustn’t it?) , me standing
in front of a canvas the size of a movie screen
with step-ladders and scaffolding when I need them.
I'm surrounded by scores of canvases
in various stages of completion—
landscapes, still-lifes, nudes, abstracts in all the styles:
impressionistic, expressionistic, realistic, etc.
(You know the list) .... Why, there's that super-
realistic still-life I did
of a human pelvic bone encircling a ripe anjou pear,
and those cubist and pointillist pieces from my early period
(alas, they never sold years ago, and now I won't part
with them out of sheer curmudgeonliness) .
I think I see an assistant in the corner...yes, I do.