The Painters and I

I.

Michelangelo would be afraid to paint

my portrait, if he were asked

he would say, no; shake his head then

repeat, no.

Michelangelo would be afraid to paint

my portrait, for he'd see the hunger

in my lips, slightly cracking but flushed pink

and the loneliness in my eyes,

he would understand chocolate brown

is not always warmth, it can be icy.

I see the dejectedness in your posture,

he'd mutter, I cannot paint what I do not

want to preserve. You're lost, he'd whisper.

I paint those who are found.

II.

Picasso would tilt his head if asked

to paint my portrait; he'd try

and sit me down, move my arms.

He'd look at me intently, his expression

clear; I was what cubists look for,

broken before they even paint.

If Picasso agreed to my portrait,

it would be done in realism, because,

he'd explain, you're already abstract.

III.

Warhol would not be convinced

to paint my picture. You are not famous,

he'd say, you are no one.

I am no one, I agree. Except,

I am that no one who loves art.

If Warhol could be convinced

to paint me, my lips would be

smudged more than his Monroe,

as would my eyes; he'd hide my soul

in his work. He'd hide me.

IV.

Dali doesn't do portraits

and so would never do mine,

but if he were to it'd be perfect,

liquid dreams and futile reality.

I'd be stretched and balanced

on sticks to demonstrate

my fragility.

V.

If I were asked to paint myself

and I have been, I would do it

in oil pastel, smudge myself

with ridiculous colours; greens

and oranges and reds.

You make yourself look an alien,

they exclaim,

and I say, exactly. Exactly.