The poet lifts his brush and, looking in
the mirror, examines himself with detailed care.

First stroke, a daub of colour describing appearance.
A skinny build, slim jeans, a preference for green.
Once full and dark, the hairline’s now receding
as eyebrows morph, becoming peppered white.
A patch of red upon the cheek that flares
and hazel eyes, that yellow when run-down.

The second stroke, lays down habitual hints.
Five calloused fingers from running down six strings.
Rubbing his back reveals the daily lifting,
or Sunday morning kit lugged from the car.
A tendency to slouch, a life of study.
Perhaps the knees should be more worn than this.

The third and final stroke stares deep within,
tracing beyond his stoic exterior.
A war of looming textures and clashing colours
explores the shades of grey, the constant tension
between the love of self and love of other,
that errs towards the one he knows it shouldn’t.

Laying down his brush, the poet ponders
just why it is we’re quick to catch the blemishes.

On a walk today I found myself wondering what a poetic self-portrait would look like. I suspect it would be more revealing than this, but I’m not sure I’m ready to do that yet!
(27.02.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Ahmed Raza Kz on Unsplash