Long Gogh Poems
Long Gogh Poems. Below are the most popular long Gogh by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Gogh poems by poem length and keyword.
I fell.
Not with a cry, nor with glory,
but as a cross falls
from the chest of one who forgot how to believe.
I fell on a Wednesday,
when the rain smelled of raw fish,
and the hurried world drew its umbrellas
like mantles
of indifference.
No one saw me.
They were busy with their bicycles,
with their phones,
with their eyes,
which no longer weep, but only check notifications.
I fell on a bench
where an old Moroccan woman was sitting,
murmuring something in Arabic.
Maybe a prayer.
Maybe a longing.
Maybe just hunger.
She handed me a mandarin
and said: “Allah ziet alles.”
I felt ashamed.
I fell in front of a shop window
filled with blind mannequins.
In them,
I saw all my dreams,
dressed beautifully,
but hollow within.
At the Van Gogh Museum,
a little girl asked:
“Daddy, why did he paint stars on such sad nights?”
And I thought: we all paint…
only some of us have no colors,
only ashes.
I fell slowly,
without a sound,
like an unfinished verse
written in a hotel room
where only the cold can be heard.
And no one asked,
“What’s wrong with you?”
for no one asks anymore.
They just pass by,
faces turned toward the future,
souls wrapped in plastic.
But maybe I wasn’t lost.
Maybe I just saw myself
for the first time
in the dirty mirror
of an Amsterdam canal,
where the sky falls
every morning,
and no one asks it
why.
Header Note
Sponsor Name: Silent One
Painting Name: The Starry Night
Artist Name: Vincent van Gogh
Painted Year: June 1889
Submitted Date: 8 July 2026
Before the World Called It Genius
On the moon eclipse night
when everything went dark and horrified
I fell into a strange dream
Time tore open and I was in 1889
There he sat
Van Gogh in the backyard
alone with a white canvas and the night
With one stroke he dragged anxiety
with the next hope
with the third wonder and loneliness
all swirling together
Huge stars turned on the canvas
a bright crescent moon bled light
a galaxy spun like water
like fire
The sky did not hang
The sky lived
Below it a quiet sleeping village
A church steeple pointing up
silent as his sadness
silent as his grief
One small village
under an infinite sky
like a desert that grows
one Evening Primrose of hope
after years
Then the cypress tree
dark a flame touching earth to sky
His struggling life grew from the ground
and burned toward the stars
Bold colors
Thick brushstrokes
His pain his grief his loneliness
all poured onto white canvas
I watched his hands move
A masterpiece born in front of me
He could not see what we would see
After his death
the world finally looked up
They saw the swirls and called them genius
They saw the night and called it holy
They saw him
And me
I was just a witness on an eclipse night
time traveling into 1889
to feel the painting
while it was still being painted
A glowing yellow moon, fills the sky with light,
As it oozes on roofs, on a cold starry night.
Blues and purples, swirl gracefully through the sky,
As distant galaxies, can be seen with our eye.
An old church spire, pierces the landscape,
Casting dark shadows, in a triangular shape.
The deep dark blues, envelope the distance,
As light from gold windows, proves the towns existence.
The stars that glow, above our heads,
Trickle light, like dust, as people lay in bed.
A dark black bush, blocks views to the west,
We stare at the town, as a welcome guest.
Warmth and light, radiate through clouds,
A soft warm light, the town it enshrouds.
We look past the town, to a midnight canvas,
With hills and boulders, in awe of its grandness.
A dry blue sea, that shines green in the day,
The hills surround the town, down the valley it lays.
The horizon merges, with a sky blue and gold,
As the moon floats above, so effortless and bold.
As the town prepares, for their deserving sleep,
We stand on the hill, look down and weep.
We look in awe, at the warmth of the light,
My favourite painting, Van Gogh Starry Night
Dew drops grace green grasses
Soothing like my pearly power shower
I choose the right outfit for an orange day
Under the fruit bowl by Vincent Van Gogh
Breakfast bar stool welcomes hungry hips
Honey dew melon kisses lips
Pray meditate talk to God and myself
Water plants feed perky pets sweep steps
Thunderous thud at the French door
Blue genes deliver the paper boy
Who always smells like molasses
Busy red rush for beige boisterous bus
Cool car pool to trendy train that passes
Helium houses that empty again of masses
Spied by sharp eyed animals of prey
Early bird flight climb sky
By Water Lily Lake
Sun is a ball of fire rolling uphill
A wise bald eagle relaxes on top of the world
His seat red, white, blue flag’s pole by the mill
Sun rays in his face
Tattoo him as silhouette Smokey gray
Oh! What a journey
We have walked through fields of gold
And stood beneath starry nights
Moon dust in our eyes
specks still glowing on our tongues
And in our folds and creases
Do you remember?
The gardens at Montmartre
And those courtyards where we stayed
Oh! The memories
The Seashore near Saints Maries
I can almost feel her breeze
Do you remember?
The flower beds in Holland
A quilt of many colors
And the poppy fields
Swaying in a summer breeze
Under cloudy canopy
We have seen the world
You and I – through Vincent’s eyes
Etched forever in our souls
Now we come to rest
Here! at the end of the road
The shoes of Vincent Van Gogh
~~~
Author: Elaine George
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.
Your room has one bed and only one chair.
You’ve only one life and only one ear.
Rise up, rise up from your hospital bed.
Don’t heed what the good Dr. Gachet said.
Go to your window, see the starry night.
It’s only a dream. Do not fear the height.
You think that your room is too far above,
But in this dream, you have wings like a dove.
Take flight far beyond sweet Venus and Mars
Through a swirling of galaxies and stars.
In the dark night, hear your prostitute sing.
She’s just off key, but it lessens the sting.
Watch the sun rise up, so bright in the East,
Above the sunflowers, you are released.
Hear a young girl’s voice like an angel sing.
Her melodious lilt like wind chimes ring.
Rise up from your hospital bed and go.
Walk to your sun kissed wheat field below.
Go to your wheat field. Put a gun to your head.
It’s just a dream. You won’t really be dead.
While off in the wheat field, his dream went black,
He lives in colors which God shan’t take back.
An Edvard Munch reproduction hangs demurely,
yet with a blushing come-hither
disclosing/unclothing.
A Van Gogh print
hovers near her like a sad and troubled lodger.
I sense his self-inflicted wound itching
under the bandages.
Flick goes the duster,
for a moment the diaphanous drape
covering Munch’s semi-naked girl flies away.
In his self-portrait, for an instant
Van Gogh’s lost ear returns.
I am putting the world to rights,
or maybe just my world.
Not correcting, just moving the artwork along
to where it was going, or should have not gone to
before it was set forever inside a jailhouse frame.
Dutch upbringing, melancholic
Suffered love’s rejection throes
On the verge of deep frustration
Fought the waves of mental woes.
Painted orchards, blossoms, landscapes
Where sunflowers reigned supreme
Bold the colours and rough beauty
A post-impressionist dream.
Vivid rushes of emotion
With concision, grace, displayed
The dramatic, the spiritual
Vibrant strokes on canvas laid.
Life aborted, sad conclusion
Was it peace or hand of shame?
Only then he was acknowledged
To immortal heights of fame.
-----------------------------------------------
19th April 2014
Contest: Your Favorite Artist
Sponsor: Anthony Slausen
Placing: 6th
SENSE PLEASURE
Red honeyed apples
autumn leaves dewed
****** merge with sun streams
whilst children sleep dear dreams
Bobbing bubble baths
yogurt on hot chilli pie laughs
smell the sour dough
nourishment oh oh oh !
Blue moon paints front stoep
knobbly hand whispers stories
of heritages and future glories
skin ripples aptly rapt
Prancing clean laundry dance
mother’s milk in melting mouth
puppy grovels dirt digging south
sound frequencies simmer smoothly
Von Gogh sunflowers float in
mental notes skipping
Mozart phantom pianos airwaves
come dine alive then to jive
Pleasure finding the lost gazed
glance glimmer with God at no cost
Earth to Heaven find
THE JOYOUS JOURNEYED CONNECTION !
©GhairoDanielsPoetry&Song
2000