Les Maîtres

I wonder how old Edwards managed to live

On proceeds of his art shop hidden away

In a scruffy back street? And who told me of

His quiet existence? What had he to say

To a boy I wonder? It remained unsaid.

He had a shelf of three-and-sixpenny books.

I bought one at a time after I had

Perused them delicately. Pointed looks

Were saved for subjects: well, he had a beard,

So must have painted too. Bonnard, Gromaire,

Chardin, Rouault, Modigliani and

The rest; I have them still, tight packed up there,

All black and white till 1954,

The year I left for my blue period,

When coloured fronts made them a tanner more.

Could Delacroix relieve his solitude?

I wavered over Guys, and Géricault

Hamstrung by grey, could not resist the bite

Of Suzanne Valadon, hungry to know

Paysage, a plenitude of nudes and fruit.