Plaster Ducks (Poetry)
26th February 2012
Done in oils, inexpertly, my art
a showing-off, self-conscious and naive,
but he admired it, gruff, small praise a spur
to fill another canvas just for him.
The subject was an ancient charioteer
copied from a vase, the image drawn
more vividly, the horses’ movement caught
in studied lines of thin black prancing legs.
I had it framed — his birthday gift — the year
we were engaged. Enthused, I painted on —
a profile of a girl in shades of pink,
her hair a candy cloud, my brushwork streaked.
He wasn’t true and I gave up on art —
my pictures likely gone for jumble with
chipped plaster ducks bound for other homes
and hung on walls for which they were not meant.
a showing-off, self-conscious and naive,
but he admired it, gruff, small praise a spur
to fill another canvas just for him.
The subject was an ancient charioteer
copied from a vase, the image drawn
more vividly, the horses’ movement caught
in studied lines of thin black prancing legs.
I had it framed — his birthday gift — the year
we were engaged. Enthused, I painted on —
a profile of a girl in shades of pink,
her hair a candy cloud, my brushwork streaked.
He wasn’t true and I gave up on art —
my pictures likely gone for jumble with
chipped plaster ducks bound for other homes
and hung on walls for which they were not meant.