Always the same old silence

And the same old,

Always different,

Northern light.

Always the same old smell

Of dried-out clay

And dried-out paint

And dried-out ideas.

That brush I haven’t touched in years.

That palette knife remains my favourite.

So many pencils sharpened in hope ...

My workbench is flecked with colours

That have not become anything at all

While ceasing to be themselves.

Here is a brownish smear

That was once Vermilion.

There is a spattering of grey

That was once Ultramarine.

And, in their tubes,

Resplendent with their unique names,

The still-virgin paints are waiting.

A Rose Madder

That is quite innocent of the world.

A Sap Green

That does not even know that it is Sap Green.

And here am I,

Surveying the debris of so many years

And reflecting on so many possibilities,

Available, as always,

Just in case an angel

Should pass through my north-facing window

And perch for one instant on my workbench,

Its wings ablaze with colours

For which only God knows the names.

 

Jonathan Steffen.