Tuesday Poem: "Black Moon" by Matthew Sweeney

For white he used toothpaste, 
for red, blood – but only his own 
that he hijacked just enough of each day. 

For green he crushed basil in a little 
olive oil. His yellow was egg yolk, 
his black, coal dust dampened with water. 

He tried several routes to blue 
before stopping at the intersection 
of bilberry juice and pounded bluebells. 

His brown was his own, too, applied 
last thing in the day before the first 
Laphraoig, and the stone jug of ale. 

He used no other colours, but his tone 
was praised by Prince Haisal, no less, 
which got him a rake of commissions 

and a residency-offer in Kuwait 
which he turned down. At home 
the Royal Family was less generous 

so he painted them all, in a series 
that came to be called his brown period, 
though this was strictly incorrect. 

He never exhibited with other painters, 
never drank with them, spoke of them – 
never even spat at their work. 

A cave in the Orkneys was his last dwelling 
and he rode a horse to his studio. 
There were no people in these paintings, 

which were found piled up on one another 
inside the cave, with no sign of him, 
and on top was a depiction of a black moon.

by Matthew Sweeney

For more information about poet, Matthew Sweeney, see:

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/matthew-sweeney