Imagine the moment of hesitation:
the catch in his voice,
                                   knowing
he could not turn back: after years
up and down the river, a request
piping up – Do you suppose
you could teach me to paint?
Teach the secret alchemy
of colours?
                   The physical pleasure
of brushwork? Let’s make a two-part invention
on canvas.
                   I imagine the boatman understood
Whistler’s complaint against the critics.
Of his symphony in white – Yes,
there is yellow, brown, blue
and also other hues. ‘Does he then believe
that a symphony in F
contains no other note,
                                      F, F, F…?
Fool.’ The gleam of poisonous lead brilliance
emerging through force, the single-minded
touchstone.
                   From the oar to the brush, from mud-
bottomed river to the peculiar chemistry
of the palette, it is all one action,
one arc, one journey through the shimmering sludge.