Poetry of Tom Greggs
  • Poems 1
    • Fair For Any Bird
    • Untitled II
    • Old Photo / Black Luger
    • Stirrer of Seas
    • On The Stair
    • Red Delicious
    • The Occasional Poem
    • Emerging
    • Proper Use of the Scythe
    • Anemone
    • Hole in the Wall
    • Muddy Waters
    • Gauguin in Ketchikan
    • Red Tailed Hawk
    • Poet, Adjusted
    • April
  • Poems 2
    • Jack Straws
    • A Titanic
    • Unclothing
    • Counting Cop Cars
    • Cargo Cult
    • Island Bird
    • River Stones
    • Boy in Victory
    • The Difference Between Burying and Planting
    • Vietnam Memorial In Rain
    • How Relationships End
    • Clearing of the Land
    • Periwinkle
    • Surge Channel
    • An Artist Gives Birth
  • Short Poems
    • Beach Cabin
    • Untitled
    • Short Poem 1
    • Drive Time Jazz
    • Road to Walla Walla
    • These Things
    • Short Poem 2
    • Short Poem 3
    • The Undulate
    • Short Poem 4
    • Living Twice
    • You-Me
  • Sock Drawer
    • Washaway Beach
    • A Splendid Christmas Corpse
    • Who Laid the Bone
    • Everybody's Packin'
    • She's the Next Best Thing
  • Contact Me
An Artist Gives Birth Or
Why A Child Is Like A Painting
                          © 2018 Tom Greggs


Having applied and sanded coats of primer 
And prepared colors for the expected date
Put in supplies of brushes, oils and thinners
Still it's a profound shock to begin a painting


There is so much chance of failure
A plan or idea can disappear in a moment
Not returning for years, if ever, and we are
Only given so many in a lifetime


The idea grows beyond a seed, sprouting
As lines are marked out on canvas 
Pigments selected and mixed, the frame
Braced and corners checked for square


When a painting starts to come together
It gives off a smell to its author like talcum 
Or soured milk but in a good way—it announces
The arrival of something that cannot be ignored


It stands, this new thing, with its own language
It begins to look and act like its author
And begins to make demands on an audience 
new to these audacious expressions


And as time goes by you see the genius 
The sinuous lines or the strong, proud lines
As beautiful and baffling as a shooting star 
Or a late night call saying the car is wrecked


This is art that cannot be kept under lock
That will move out to its own apartment
And maybe not call for weeks at a time
That will be loved by unknown others


But you will have your truth which is that
The heart you have placed into this work 
Lives and gives off a new kind of light 
Found in forms shaped by your hand

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