Poetry...
The Apprentice
It was all magic and no money.
My brushes shed linseed tears
that fell false and true.
Drawing a house, I set the bricks on fire,
jammed the streets with roarings and flame reds,
scorched the gables ivory black:
my captives danced in flame.
In a frenzy all morning, wrapped against
the blue flames, then diving in cafes at midday:
tea cups lounged in drawings, coagulated
on the page. Bricks and holes I visited
and brought back every lamppost Lazarus –
a missionary among dopey cats and stale
back yards, never far from brass-brown glasses –
my favourite colour. I drew the streets on fire,
committed arson against the structure of faces,
committing myself to colour, burned the midday oil,
made the little man smaller, took from the rich
and drew for the poor.
Then my studio flapped in the wind; a nobody
was at the door – he was all noise and no money.
I raged war on quiet afternoons;
erased conformity with one subtle flick
of my 2B, broke my point on a graveyard
and a tart, insulted you, my love, in ink,
made litters of children briefly happy,
captured characters and sometimes found them out,
resurrected a plate of kippers, charcoaled miners,
washed in kids playing, four aiched the critics,
pastelled the frail waitresses, white highlighting
their exotic-greasy faces.
It was all tragic and no money. It wasn’t funny.
I took my captives home and locked them up.
©2003 Alan Perry
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