Van Gogh in Paris
I no longer strove for scenes
so dark they could have been sketched
with stubs of coal.
Flowers were cheap
and I had no money other
than Theo’s. So I painted
as if there were fields
of flowers to be found
in Montmartre. Reds
of gladioli, coppery
petals of fritillaries,
the buttery yellows
of daffodils. I hung
my drawings and paintings
from floor to ceiling
in the Cafe du Tambourin
as if it was the Salon.
I had always been lonely.
Now friends of mine and Theo’s
were like the cafes
in this district, numerous.
I was intoxicated:
new styles of art were like hats
in a millinery shop,
everywhere.
I tried them all on:
Monet's, Seurat's, Gauguin's...
the hats fitting easily on my dandy’s
red head. But I was drinking
day and night,
my health failing,
as was Theo’s.
I had to leave Paris,
where I had arrived
like a gust of music
through an open window,
as Theo joked. Now my leaving
surprised him.
Why give up friends
for the south?
He shook his head,
worried, knowing loneliness
was more poisonous
than absinthe.
Van Gogh in Paris
Re: Van Gogh in Paris
BOB--
A thrilling narrative that quietly breaks the heart.
the flow manages skillful changes of both attitude and thrust---the result is that the poem is fresh with every line without any need to shock or disorient the reader. very professional, very skillful.
do you know sarah sloat? active in the ibpc forums before focusing elsewhere. the first verse of a poem of hers that i like very much. a trailing scent of your poem, the sadness.
Seven Postcards From Solitude
Sara Jane Sloat
It is becoming more difficult to write a letter
from the slow country of summer.
The light makes a mess of the trees.
A lawn chair broods in a corner way off the map.
A thrilling narrative that quietly breaks the heart.
the flow manages skillful changes of both attitude and thrust---the result is that the poem is fresh with every line without any need to shock or disorient the reader. very professional, very skillful.
do you know sarah sloat? active in the ibpc forums before focusing elsewhere. the first verse of a poem of hers that i like very much. a trailing scent of your poem, the sadness.
Seven Postcards From Solitude
Sara Jane Sloat
It is becoming more difficult to write a letter
from the slow country of summer.
The light makes a mess of the trees.
A lawn chair broods in a corner way off the map.
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Re: Van Gogh in Paris
Thanks so much, Bernie....I'm glad you like the flow especially. Sarah Sloat is great....she often amazes me with her dexterity. I love the line 'The light makes a mess of the trees' ....