The Artist by Amy Lowell
After working a 10-hour day, with a 1 1/2 hour commute, I spent a couple hours painting (ceilings and walls, not art) and now I’m totally pooped. I went on a hunt for a poem about painting and found quite a few goodies (more about art than painting a wall). I realized I haven’t posted anything by Amy Lowell in quite a while and I was reminded why I like her work so much.
The Artist
By Amy Lowell
Why do you subdue yourself in golds and purples?
Why do you dim yourself with folded silks?
Do you not see that I can buy brocades in any draper’s shop,
And that I am choked in the twilight of all these colours.
How pale you would be, and startling,
How quiet;
But your curves would spring upward
Like a clear jet of flung water,
You would quiver like a shot-up spray of water,
You would waver, and relapse, and tremble.
And I too should tremble,
Watching.
Murex-dyes and tinsel—
And yet I think I could bear your beauty unshaded.
