'My paintings are my children.'
Fool! Come meet
An artist with no babies.
You bet she'd sell
Those babes for ready cash.
How glib to deign
my life's great loves
no more than painted panels.
It's true: my part in them
Brute, hard work
Like stretching canvas. But see:
Masterworks of their own volition,
They move with grace,
followed by my eye with hot delight.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem