Letter from Arles
Posted: 20 Jun 2022, 03:53
V1(revised, with Ieuan's suggestions):
Letter from Arles
Dear Paul, some nights I slipped
into your room as you slept.
A mother standing over her son’s bed
knowing any day
he could leave home,
to strike out on his own,
knows my feeling
of impending loss.
How could I ask you to stay,
you with a wife and children,
and fame awaiting you
in Paris?
I was desperate
the night I found your bed empty.
That’s why I ran out
into the streets calling your name.
But why should I expect loyalty?
Years ago hadn’t I done the same
in abandoning Sien
and her baby?
Released once again, Paul,
from Arles' hospital
I am back in the yellow house,
packing to leave.
In the mirror I can’t hide
from my bandaged ear,
the damage deeper
than I want to admit to.
I am ready for St-Remy’s asylum,
if I’m allowed to paint there.
Surely the staff won’t hover
over me like the hooligans
in the streets here.
Where are you? Is it a sailor’s
instinct to abandon ship?
You should know I am not
a ship’s figurehead
able to shrug off
whatever waves the sea
throws at me.
I hope you never know
despair like mine—
and the fear of it overcoming me
without warning
as if it were an electric storm
--and me without support,
a sole tree
in an open field.
I sense there are more storms
flashing knives
lined up off the coast.
There will be shorter
and shorter periods
between attacks.
The distraction of painting
is my only defense.
Should you write, your letters
will find me at St. Remy,
where there will be others
with my illness.
May you never know
the loneliness of being shackled
to an iron bed—an animal
cowering in its trap.
V3:
Vincent Writes to Gauguin After He Flees Arles
Paul,
I am ready for St-Remy’s asylum,
if I’m allowed to paint there.
Surely the staff won’t hover
over me like the hooligans
in the streets here.
Where are you? Is it a sailor’s
instinct to abandon ship?
You should know I am not
a ship’s figurehead
able to shrug off
whatever waves the sea
throws in front of me.
I hope you never know
despair like mine—
and the fear of it overcoming me
without warning
as if it were an electric storm
--and me without support,
a sole tree
in an open field.
I sense there are more storms
lined up as far as the eyes can see
off the coast.
There will be shorter
and shorter periods
between attacks.
The distraction of painting
is my only defense.
Should you write, your letters
will find me at St. Remy,
where there will be others
with my illness.
May you never know
the loneliness of being shackled
to an iron bed—an animal
shuddering in its trap.
V2:
Vincent
Paul, some nights I slipped
into your room as you slept.
A mother standing over her son’s bed
knowing any day
he could leave home,
to strike out on his own,
knows my feeling
of impending loss.
How could I ask you to stay,
you with a wife and children,
and fame awaiting you
in Paris?
I was desperate
the night I found your bed empty.
That’s why I ran out
into the streets calling for you.
I am now “the mad man”
the neighbors petition
to be handed back to his family—
or dumped in an institution.
I am ready for St-Remy’s asylum,
if I’m allowed to paint there.
Surely the staff won’t hover
over me like the hooligans
in the streets here.
Where are you? Is it a sailor’s
instinct to abandon ship?
You should know I am not
a ship’s figurehead
able to shrug off
whatever waves the sea
throws in front of me.
I hope you never know
despair like mine—
and the fear of it overcoming me
without warning
as if it were an electric storm
--and me without support,
a sole tree
in an open field.
I sense there are more storms
lined up as far as the eyes can see
off the coast.
There will be shorter
and shorter periods
between attacks.
The distraction of painting
is my only defense.
Should you write, your letters
will find me at St. Remy,
where there will be others
with my illness.
May you never know
the loneliness of being shackled
to an iron bed—an animal
shuddering in its trap.
V1:
Vincent
Paul, some nights I slipped
into your room as you slept.
A mother standing over her son’s bed
knowing any day
he could leave home,
to strike out on his own,
knows my feeling
of impending loss.
How could I ask you to stay,
you with a wife and children,
and fame awaiting you
in Paris?
I was desperate
the night I found your bed empty.
That’s why I ran out
into the streets calling for you.
But why should I expect loyalty?
Years ago hadn’t I
abandoned Sien
and her baby?
Released once again, Paul,
from Arles' hospital
I am back in our yellow house,
packing to leave,
the walls sweating salt
and water from a recent flood,
canvases too ruined
to repair.
In the mirror I can’t hide
from my bandaged left ear.
The damage goes much deeper.
Ask my neighbors,
who petition the mayor
to have “the mad man”
handed back to his family
or hauled off to an institution.
I am ready for St-Remy’s asylum,
if I’m allowed to paint there.
Surely the staff won’t hover
over me like the hooligans
in the streets here.
Where are you? Is it a sailor’s
instinct to abandon ship?
You should know I am not
a ship’s figurehead
able to shrug off
whatever waves the sea
throws in front of me.
I hope you never know
despair like mine—
and the fear of it overcoming me
without warning
as if it were an electric storm
--and me without support,
a sole tree
in an open field.
I sense there are more storms
lined up as far as the eyes can see
off the coast.
There will be shorter
and shorter periods
between attacks.
The distraction of painting
is my only defense.
Should you write, your letters
will find me at St. Remy,
where there will be others
with my illness.
May you never know
the loneliness of being shackled
to an iron bed—an animal
shuddering in its trap.
note: This is an old poem, significantly enlarged
Letter from Arles
Dear Paul, some nights I slipped
into your room as you slept.
A mother standing over her son’s bed
knowing any day
he could leave home,
to strike out on his own,
knows my feeling
of impending loss.
How could I ask you to stay,
you with a wife and children,
and fame awaiting you
in Paris?
I was desperate
the night I found your bed empty.
That’s why I ran out
into the streets calling your name.
But why should I expect loyalty?
Years ago hadn’t I done the same
in abandoning Sien
and her baby?
Released once again, Paul,
from Arles' hospital
I am back in the yellow house,
packing to leave.
In the mirror I can’t hide
from my bandaged ear,
the damage deeper
than I want to admit to.
I am ready for St-Remy’s asylum,
if I’m allowed to paint there.
Surely the staff won’t hover
over me like the hooligans
in the streets here.
Where are you? Is it a sailor’s
instinct to abandon ship?
You should know I am not
a ship’s figurehead
able to shrug off
whatever waves the sea
throws at me.
I hope you never know
despair like mine—
and the fear of it overcoming me
without warning
as if it were an electric storm
--and me without support,
a sole tree
in an open field.
I sense there are more storms
flashing knives
lined up off the coast.
There will be shorter
and shorter periods
between attacks.
The distraction of painting
is my only defense.
Should you write, your letters
will find me at St. Remy,
where there will be others
with my illness.
May you never know
the loneliness of being shackled
to an iron bed—an animal
cowering in its trap.
V3:
Vincent Writes to Gauguin After He Flees Arles
Paul,
I am ready for St-Remy’s asylum,
if I’m allowed to paint there.
Surely the staff won’t hover
over me like the hooligans
in the streets here.
Where are you? Is it a sailor’s
instinct to abandon ship?
You should know I am not
a ship’s figurehead
able to shrug off
whatever waves the sea
throws in front of me.
I hope you never know
despair like mine—
and the fear of it overcoming me
without warning
as if it were an electric storm
--and me without support,
a sole tree
in an open field.
I sense there are more storms
lined up as far as the eyes can see
off the coast.
There will be shorter
and shorter periods
between attacks.
The distraction of painting
is my only defense.
Should you write, your letters
will find me at St. Remy,
where there will be others
with my illness.
May you never know
the loneliness of being shackled
to an iron bed—an animal
shuddering in its trap.
V2:
Vincent
Paul, some nights I slipped
into your room as you slept.
A mother standing over her son’s bed
knowing any day
he could leave home,
to strike out on his own,
knows my feeling
of impending loss.
How could I ask you to stay,
you with a wife and children,
and fame awaiting you
in Paris?
I was desperate
the night I found your bed empty.
That’s why I ran out
into the streets calling for you.
I am now “the mad man”
the neighbors petition
to be handed back to his family—
or dumped in an institution.
I am ready for St-Remy’s asylum,
if I’m allowed to paint there.
Surely the staff won’t hover
over me like the hooligans
in the streets here.
Where are you? Is it a sailor’s
instinct to abandon ship?
You should know I am not
a ship’s figurehead
able to shrug off
whatever waves the sea
throws in front of me.
I hope you never know
despair like mine—
and the fear of it overcoming me
without warning
as if it were an electric storm
--and me without support,
a sole tree
in an open field.
I sense there are more storms
lined up as far as the eyes can see
off the coast.
There will be shorter
and shorter periods
between attacks.
The distraction of painting
is my only defense.
Should you write, your letters
will find me at St. Remy,
where there will be others
with my illness.
May you never know
the loneliness of being shackled
to an iron bed—an animal
shuddering in its trap.
V1:
Vincent
Paul, some nights I slipped
into your room as you slept.
A mother standing over her son’s bed
knowing any day
he could leave home,
to strike out on his own,
knows my feeling
of impending loss.
How could I ask you to stay,
you with a wife and children,
and fame awaiting you
in Paris?
I was desperate
the night I found your bed empty.
That’s why I ran out
into the streets calling for you.
But why should I expect loyalty?
Years ago hadn’t I
abandoned Sien
and her baby?
Released once again, Paul,
from Arles' hospital
I am back in our yellow house,
packing to leave,
the walls sweating salt
and water from a recent flood,
canvases too ruined
to repair.
In the mirror I can’t hide
from my bandaged left ear.
The damage goes much deeper.
Ask my neighbors,
who petition the mayor
to have “the mad man”
handed back to his family
or hauled off to an institution.
I am ready for St-Remy’s asylum,
if I’m allowed to paint there.
Surely the staff won’t hover
over me like the hooligans
in the streets here.
Where are you? Is it a sailor’s
instinct to abandon ship?
You should know I am not
a ship’s figurehead
able to shrug off
whatever waves the sea
throws in front of me.
I hope you never know
despair like mine—
and the fear of it overcoming me
without warning
as if it were an electric storm
--and me without support,
a sole tree
in an open field.
I sense there are more storms
lined up as far as the eyes can see
off the coast.
There will be shorter
and shorter periods
between attacks.
The distraction of painting
is my only defense.
Should you write, your letters
will find me at St. Remy,
where there will be others
with my illness.
May you never know
the loneliness of being shackled
to an iron bed—an animal
shuddering in its trap.
note: This is an old poem, significantly enlarged