Long Poems About Ted Hughes

I was a fresh tube of paint, Indian Yellow,
in wait to experience the slick skin  
of a gesso'd canvas—or paper'd  
Poetry put to pictures, a visual gift
After hand-to-hand combat
With the muse. I had never known  
A scent of turpentine permeating  
The space of an atelier,  
Unlike my friend, whose name  
Was that of a man's, Michael,  
Yet, she was feminine as they come.
Michael, who had fallen obsessively  
Within the composition of one
Who would unwittingly become
My greatest mentor. Me, starry-eyed   ...