By Dominic James
In a shortage of materials before the war
my paints were spoiled, Quinacridone
and yellows altered by rich oils spilled
or was it wax between the ears? Either way,
wrong to mix them on the palette.
All the same, I stirred in lesser golds
and tarnished minerals. Ideal. No.
Yet thin enough on canvas/easel to create –
approximate that human flush of lucency
which dries no darker than Blake’s own
infernal processes or, lighter than the lemon peel
delightful to Van Hooch. My glue takes well
with brush and pen on heavy paper – in
a much-stained cup from which I sup
a fragrant mixture, dipped-in for landscapes,
factories, lives, places where the constant worker
meets and make. I travel to the old, familiar sites
and from a distance restore them from their palimpsests,
egg-tempera’d workshops and shelters from above,
made blueprints in my watercolour stain.
And if I dab their hearts with greys or melancholy rain
from my yolk-adulterated range I make them all:
sunny-side up at breakfast time. I make – what can I say?
a new day’s start of each. Fresh as orange juice
in Africa, coffee in New York.