Long Gauguin Poems
Long Gauguin Poems. Below are the most popular long Gauguin by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Gauguin poems by poem length and keyword.
Days pass into the weak, loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath Van Gogh’s brush, as he links.
Comet light passes twisting cypresses, a schizophrenic’s concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees, and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightning bugs mimic the stars. Atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him, sneering.
Their images dance beneath his lids, when he blinks.
Though denied a compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, he still connects, links
with the life which absorbs and excludes him, not complaining.
Nights pass without his mistress, Sien. His mind is concussive.
His face trembles torn in the brass sounds of the storm’s concussions.
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker, all of them, sneer.
How unmerciful, this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain.
If lack of mercy is just, may he not know why? Time blinks.
Thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him, he links.
He accepts art and the pain, as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices, the paint, the moon, the voices say, reciprocate.
He chases mice. The cheese plate falls with a loud concussion.
He rubs his gnarled hands across his lids. He maintains the link.
How? Why? But, the mice eating his cheese only sneer.
The sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in their vase, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls attempting to sit, the chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear as sunlight; yet, the paint complained.
He was not God; he could not capture the light. He must reciprocate.
After all, who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust; life blinks.
Ah death, le grand mal, no minor concussion,
He must escape, join the celestial spin, and avoid their sneers.
Sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, not linking.
The brushes call. He prostitutes himself. Oil spills, connecting, linking.
Theo, brother, never would he forgive. Many others would complain.
Ah, Gauguin, His dear friend, he would understand and not sneer.
If God was truly a loving God, surely, he thought; God will not reciprocate.
The mockers who did not live in Dante’s nine levels of hellish concussion,
they will call his actions cowardly. Merciless, they did not live between the blinks.
Days pass into the weak, loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath Van Gogh’s brush, as he links.
Comet light passes twisting cypresses, a schizophrenic’s concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees, and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightning bugs mimic the stars. Atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him, sneering.
Their images dance beneath his lids, when he blinks.
Though denied a compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, he still connects, links
with the life which absorbs and excludes him, not complaining.
Nights pass without his mistress, Sien. His mind is concussive.
His face trembles torn in the brass sounds of the storm’s concussions.
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker, all of them, sneer.
How unmerciful, this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain.
If lack of mercy is just, may he not know why? Time blinks.
Thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him, he links.
He accepts art and the pain, as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices, the paint, the moon, the voices say, reciprocate.
He chases mice. The cheese plate falls with a loud concussion.
He rubs his gnarled hands across his lids. He maintains the link.
How? Why? But, the mice eating his cheese only sneer.
The sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in their vase, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls attempting to sit, the chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear as sunlight; yet, the paint complained.
He was not God; he could not capture the light. He must reciprocate.
After all, who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust; life blinks.
Ah death, le grand mal, no minor concussion,
He must escape, join the celestial spin, and avoid their sneers.
Sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, not linking.
The brushes call. He prostitutes himself. Oil spills, connecting, linking.
Theo, brother, never would he forgive. Many others would complain.
Ah, Gauguin, His dear friend, he would understand and not sneer.
If God was truly a loving God, surely, he thought; God will not reciprocate.
The mockers who did not live in Dante’s nine levels of hellish concussion,
they will call his actions cowardly. Merciless, they did not live between the blinks.
Van Gogh's Yellow House
On the corner of a cobblestone street, a yellow house is located,
and nearby, there is a bistro to eat at and a café where friends meet,
which are illuminated by a sulphur sun under a cobalt sky.
A train barrels past the sunlit house of unfulfilled dreams
as I enter the building and grin as life passes me by,
because I can’t see the future for the tears in my eyes.
Through cracked-open green shutters, as reclusive as I can be,
I see gawkers with their arms outstretched and fingers pointing,
saying to each other, “Look up there, the painter’s crazy.”
My heart has grown cold and dry. Destiny has been mean to me.
And now, the police come to my door to force me to leave,
by decree of law, with a petition signed by the community.
Still, the scenery inspires me, and I can’t relinquish my painting.
With palette in hand, I mix red, green, blue, and yellow paints
and brush their hues, tints, tones, and shades on the canvas to create
“The Street” (with audience) on 2 Place Lamartine, Arles, France.
***
Note:
On May 1, 1888, Vincent van Gogh (1853–1890) rented four rooms in the Yellow House at 2 Place Lamartine, Arles, France, and lived there from September 1, 1888, to March 1889. Fellow artist Paul Gauguin (1848–1903) shared the house with Van Gogh from late October 1888 to December 1888. It was here that Vincent van Gogh painted many of his masterpieces.
Van Gogh was forced to leave the house in March 1889 when the police, acting on a petition signed by thirty townspeople claiming that Van Gogh was mad and a threat to the community, closed the house.
The house was severely damaged during an Allied bombing raid in World War II and later demolished.
Decades of a formula that only he knew about it and drew,
Cascades of his artwork came to a head in his last years,
Glissades of a swan in a lake that only a handful had seen,
Tirades made its mark on him, distant from fellow peers.
~~[Van Gogh]~~
Impressed of his art garnered some interest in his style,
Oppressed, a constant companion only he can befriend,
Obsessed by what he drew insanely violent he withdrew,
Distressed he found salvation in asylums to not descend.
~~[Wheatfield With Crows]~~
Crows, black gawking, feed in a meadow ache for harvest,
Know that art needs to be made, scheme food for thought,
Those sinister birds, a murder of crows festering the grain,
Throes a fit mocking 'em, flys, pained him more than aught.
~~[Starry Night]~~
Bleak sky of blues, stars gave rise to a miracle been made,
Streak of a sprawl unfurls his heavens tethered madness,
Speak not lest he loses his concentration, maintains focus,
Meek town his groundwork, lofty jewel amidst the sadness.
~~[Bedroom At Arles]~~
Red, that laid on a bed, table, chairs, paintings on the wall,
Said was where he severed his ear, water bowl mirror hung,
Head bandaged where he bled, he does a self-portrait of it,
Deadman walking, Gauguin part ways, no song to be sung.
~~[Self-Portrait Bandage Ear And Pipe]~~
Drew closer, when they were both young, be such friends,
Few friends Van Gogh had, Gauguin was at that moment,
Grew apart after Vince shaving Paul, Vince wanted to hurt,
Knew time together was getting just a bit grave and potent.
~~[House At Auvers]~~
Return to Arles made Van Gogh happy for good times there,
Upturn spirits was a rarity, too few and far in the middle,
Discern with him was questionable because he's unstable,
Concern for his good, art kept him busy, else is second fiddle.
~~[Doctor Gachet]~~
Fields back of the house, a pistol, he plans to shoot himself,
Wields his pistol, shoots, nobody hears, years gun lays hidden,
Yields his brother Theo to his side as doctor aides him little,
Shields truth futile, his art was world-renown, dies bedridden.
The plague knew my infinite hulk
in 1769, crept through the Polynesian crystal
onto my outstretched archipelago
black sands and white sands and volcanoes
speaking the purple language,
the queen’s English to the farmer’s French,
and drank from the palm tree
to drain the lagoon its persistent innocence.
I called that man under white skin elbows
unhinged to finger length arms
planked ‘cross the wishful shore to the sun,
drunk with ambition for Elizabeth’s glory,
tracing the black dot of Venus
across the infinite grapefruit horizon
from juvenile tree-house forts
to play science on God’s paradise, James Cook.
By definition Cook is defined by mine.
A century more defined another
defined by my natural beauty
and native Polynesian simplicity alive in artistic
assembly, though darker skinned
than acceptable at that period before the end
of a dry English sentence,
a man with a watering eye called Paul Gauguin.
Had Gauguin’s father surpassed his flesh,
he might have said his son taught van Gogh
the artful act of goat-fed attrition
through blurred lines of lacked definition
which persist to define impressionism.
And had his father been a poet, not a journalist,
he might have taught his son that an island,
at its core, is a man, defined by his own accord.
Date: 12/21/2018
A prose poem based on Copotronic love (Scifie)
by Tamanna Ferdous
One day, I was all prepared to test him about his IQ.
After testing him with different questions in general knowledge,
I read him from an antique Bengali poet, Jibanananda Das.
"The resting place placed the restful here
Never certain if the restful is resting here, though.”
Then I asked his opinion about these two lines.
He informed me," A humane quotation with an outlier in deeper introspection."
When he was showed an art piece of Paul Gaugin,
of a polynatian girl,
he tried to perceive the art from different angles and then said,
“A deformed body had a strange reason to occupy the usage of all the colors
used otherwise irregularly.”
The valuation of paul gauguin and the remark,
it was too difficult to control a wild laughter.
After a while I stopped my loud amusement and asked him.
What was I doing?”
“You were laughing.”
“What is laughing?”
“A physical procedure devoid of meaningfulness.”
“Please try to laugh!”
He followed up with a mechanical noisy aptitude, sensible.
Prometheus, he was a machine!
Van Gogh's Severed Ear
I leaf through memories like pages in my mind,
But I can’t find the one I’m searching for.
Like a distraught painter who’s much maligned,
I can’t find a reason to live anymore.
Inside my head, I scream for others to hear
When I look at the past in the present,
Because my heart didn’t bleed when I severed my ear,
Which begs the question, “Am I still living?”
***
Note:
On the evening of December 23, 1888, Vincent van Gogh (1853–1890) had an argument with fellow painter Paul Gauguin (1848–1903), who at the time was sharing the use of van Gogh’s studio and accommodations in Arles, France. Gauguin, afraid for his life, departed from the house and sought accommodations elsewhere, whereas Vincent van Gogh followed him out of the house, threatening him with a razor, and then returned to the house, where he severed his own left ear with the razor. Because Van Gogh used mirrors for his self-portraits, the painting gives the appearance that it was the right ear that was severed.
During the police investigation that followed, Van Gogh said he had very little recollection of the event. Information available reveals that it was a horrendous and traumatizing event for Vincent van Gogh and those involved. Van Gogh nearly died as a result of blood loss from the self-inflicted mutilation and suffered indescribable pain from infection and discomfort afterwards.
The elemental powers,
Of natural scenes to paint.
Combined with intangible drama,
In a time so far and quaint.
Below the hills of Arles,
All the landscapes thrive.
The hands of Vincent Van Gogh,
Painted them alive.
Enveloped by harmony of things,
While he waited for Gauguin.
Vincent found in Arles,
What others looked for in Japan.
Paul Gauguin came and stayed,
But then he left out of fear.
Which broke Vincent’s heart,
That led to the cutting of his ear.
Vincent grew disturbed,
After his friendships quarrel.
The inception of an ill saga,
And a broken heart in Arles.
________________________
*Note: Inspired by Vincent Van Gogh's
Life and work. A true genius who
suffered of a broken heart.
Mid-life street woman from red town
she was...I grew up with her under
mango trees now softly drooping
their shoulders much like hers.. but she,
still contoured like a Paul Gauguin urn, is wrapped
in arms lovely in flesh and heat: fanned banana
leaves swaying to samba notes while cooking
fried bamboo roots; her fragrance buzzing along
summer's exotic beat. How she then pinched
my cheeks with her tapered fingers still
pink on veins floating through her quivering
body…
Somehow, she gave me this epiphany of touch;
the slow wave of body rhythm lightly fondling
the rosiness of my adolescent skin. If i knew how
to pivot in the wakening garlands of Latin
steps, it was her ample hips winding and bellying
in nights and morns of her own wanton sashays...
Oh how I long to climb her mango tree,
her waxing then waning shape still blazing among
bursting seeds of female treachery or finery.
I tell myself, there is no age when her fire sways
in places where tropical eyes dazzle with her
near flowing, soaking limbs…so tenderly
wild because she, Livia, nymph of the forest raw,
has nothing else to lose.
©
for Debbie's Women, and SKAT's Poem #2
by nette onclaud
"Life being what it is when one dreams of revenge," ... Paul Gauguin
Light seasoning dash a chain last resort
as zephyr courses an edged clement squeeze ...
sun gods and goddesses front more ... last sort.
Muzzled chartreuse turtles exhale teal seas,
fed cool streams persuade a lush verdant spree.
Cascading falls echoed balanced wildlife,
aground or in flight where heaven's decree,
claimants amity free beyond the rife.
Hawaiian spun air spells a differing,
abated Summer rains, engorge their Fall.
Ocean water's temperate offering
uncommon to most except those who call
these islands, their home. The tourists share cold
tales, saying here's paradise--we've been told.