It’s a canny picture.
The master in situ,
suited up in black,
white-shirted, black-
tied, sits not straight,
but slightly over the
table, inclined to
the left (to the right
in the other), legs
crossed at the ankles.
He holds a cigarette
in one hand, while
the fingers of the
other hand rest firmly
on a rectangle of
purple paper. His pen
—is it his?—lies free
at the upper corner
of the paper. A coffee
cup, spoon in saucer,
and a sugar bowl sits
next to books. The
one on top is a copy
of Orpheu 2. The
subject wears a hat;
it too is black. Chair
and table match.
This, against a red
and gold and burnt
orange arrangement
of squares. There is
no cloth over the table,
not even a paper one
good for notes, poems,
notes for poems, or
minor calculations.
There is no booze:
no brandy, none of
the red. And if that
purple paper harbors
poetry, it does so on
the surface we don’t see.
Campos/Reis/Caeiro
are not in the picture.
July 27/ Aug. 10, 1980
