"One may have a blazing hearth in one's soul and yet no one ever came to sit by it. Passers-by see only a wisp of smoke from the chimney and continue on their way. " -Vincent van Gogh in a letter to his younger brother Theo van Gogh in July of 1880"
I've taken the straight razor To my ear like a third-rate Van Gogh.
Impressionism bleeding Into Expressionism.
Mania trickling into An unmitigated need To find the beauty And grace he only Found with a paintbrush.
Blood clinging to the Horse hair bristles Like the blood splattered In the margins of every Page I've ever filled. Each line and brush Stroke choking out A futile cry for help As the wheat fields burn And the sunflowers wither.
There was a man named Vincent a painter man was he And he had life so of full tragedy A lonely man was he. torn part inside And behind his pictures he would try to hide.
He would paint so beautiful for all the world to see To ease his troubled mind and try to set it free Although his life was troubled his art was of the best Until he took a gun and held it to his chest.
It was such a sin too take his life away The pictures that he did are with us till this day
When all around you saw darkness, You gazed at the stars.
Everyone wants to paint their pain, But only you, Vincent, Channeled that awful torment Into beauty Immaculate and sublime; Only you, dear Vincent Saw the beauty in the shoes, the bedroom, the weeds, the washers, Only you saw the beauty when it wasn't pretty.
To suffer is human. But To find ecstasy in the ordinary And transform the banal into the magical Is something only you could do, My dearest Vincent.
Tonight I sat by the corner of my room, Dreaming of nuclear pasta and Bottles of ultraviolet water. I was alone, and it was bleak. Everything around me was lost In the sadness of everything else Swallowing everything else. I sat and wondered about each moment that passed And how each moment slipped away until the next came afresh, unbound. But I remembered the one that came before the one next, and that too was bleak. Bleak, cold, filth, like a grotto filled with rats and dead fish. The floor creaked as I shivered sitting there, Life it seemed was given and not had. I lit candle, for it seemed macabre And I need that, It was homage, an appeal. The shadows about me had flickered as if alive, A life given. I remember wishing, wanting to be something. For the few precious moments that passed it seemed believable. Betwixt my cold finders and burning wax, I could feel and light sprung briefly. The joy was maddening, almost manic. I had whispered ferverently that I had won, Ever briefly, But the voices had come back, And those moments had passed, I blew out the candle and wept.
vincent.
Author: Natasha Trullia
0
Date: 13/12/2019
№ 1074050
Tribute To Vincent.
Brushes which fuse earth and sun In bold oily strokes. Lines that move across landscape Like flames of smoke. Palette fervent with passion colours Light's very moment. Framed an artistic heart's anguish Stays ever molten. Signed by Van Gogh fire-gilt paint Never goes cold.
A cultural giant Though his life was short Full of talent His work never caught The eye of the public Anybody who understood Because he was indeed Misunderstood It wasn't just talent Or love or art It was emotion and passion From his beating heart He was an artist With a burning desire Hardly lived just loved His own works melted in fire
