He paints a landscape,
a still life, a seascape,
countless nudes,
an abstract, a study,
a watercolor, a gouache,
his mother.
He loads his palette like a shotgun:
ceruleans, carmines,
ochres, cadmium reds,
burnt umber, viridians,
chinese white, and
raw sienna.
He paints boldly, sometimes
with knives-full of pigment,
or with a single sable-hair,
shyly, brazenly, tenderly,
brush heavy with paint,
or only a nectar-drop.
Since finished paintings
need a name;
he calls each one “Self Portrait.”
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem