Harvest Inferno

Take me to the tombstone let me touch the gray stone that stands where life could not I will put my face to that touchstone of deaf thunder, What happened to your breath baby brother, what happened in the quiet black water, maybe I am you, and you me, do you see, do you see burning infinity, tell me life is real tell me that I'm not a feeble shadow tell me that I don't disappoint you, tell me the world is wrong show me the grave is empty, Is this how Yellow was born desire alive upon the velvet of dawn, I can feel my soul coated in warm cadmium and I can see my soul in the coal country of the Borinage, that's where I discovered the hope of Yellow glowing strong in the miners' lamps where black is sovereign day and night, the black there leaves no license for joy it is jealous in every season of labor and deadly below the surface, Father do you see me here in the pure dirty hearth unholy in unabashed austerity giving the weasing workers the Word oh no Papa not in Greek or Latin nor in clean wool behind polished pulpit I bring the payment for pain like a cool hand to fevered head a benevolent blanket to calm the chill, there's no mercy in the mines, we shared in the salted skin of suffering and the Church dismissed me as if I were a damaged Disciple, send him back to the galleries they said where he can sell sunsets to the Shahs of finance and industry, let him have a parish in Paris a layiety in London, a hospital in the Hague, damn them and their dogma, I've learned that from the word fight the word gift can be spelled, I found my gift, Your tongue was like smooth charcoal drawing the deepest breaths that my soul could surrender to the surface of life, the sorrow of the streets in you Sien struck the steeple bell of my brain with a screaming lightning yet your touch tempered the terror of failure when the morning came to wake the future, love only had a minute for us in our poor madness destiny drug me away from you doggedly, the streets needed your sadness, the land beckoned my hand, I coagulate color flesh to canvas bone to brush blood to beauty spit to splendor sweat to sway thumping the texture creaming the colours splitting the spattered strokes my sunlight does not sputter it spews sensation spurs spirit into spine poplars pout cypresses scrunch and soar the fields flex and fragrance I slap and smudge hysterical harmony harvested in the heat of honesty the wind is with me in the sun I am suckled cobalt clamours ultramarine magnifies my greens are grim and glamorous grown from the ground yellows yearn for youth and my purples pine plush in passion roses repose in romantic reputation my ivy invites violet visions the irises invoke pause for pleasure peasents power the profound pulse, He always wanted my ear, and my pallate, so I gave him what I could live without, Paul's personality was always like a bruise on the brain blunt and constant boisterous beliefs bellowing blanching basics, Arles was nothing but aggravation in the 3rd degree for me, all I wanted there was the light instead I got mongrel growls and dirty cowgirls, that town arrested me for my art because my soul wouldn't be stunted, You've given me my asylum Saint Remy a solitary sanctuary for my splintering self portrait, I'm shaking in shades of insane sublimity the reaper is restless the stars are spinning the sky is rolling my heart is bursting, Are you with us Vincent... I'm where the sunflowers turn... Vincent wake up!, look at me... I can taste the paint!!!... That's not paint, it's blood, you shot yourself in the chest... Theo, come walk with me... J.A.B. This poem is dedicated to Vincent Van Gogh, a man who lived to master his craft and to give new beauty to the world. I give thanks to the art scholar W.H. Auden who wrote, Van Gogh A Self Portrait Letters Revealing His Life As A Painter, and the art scholars Ingo F. Walther and Rainer Metzger whom wrote, Vincent Van Gogh The Complete Paintings. I began composing this poem on October 17th, and through the Grace of Providence finished it on October 23rd, 2018 at 10:08 pm. I put approximately 21 hours of intellectual labor into this composition...Justin A. Bordner