Long Van Poems
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They finally brought me paints this week
What did they think I would do? Stab myself with a brush?
I could have acted grateful but I am beyond that.
I am irritated at the world right now.
So I pick up the paints and I begin to throw them onto the canvas.
I am frenzied.
No one dares to talk to me.
They stay away until lunch time.
Lunch looks ridiculous. I do not eat it.
Punishing them.
The dead trees are finished.
Now for the trees.
I am in a silly circular mood.
The paints have added levity to this dour damp cell.
I begin swirling them with happy abandon.
One of my caretakers calls through the door.
My frown is back.
Damned mad now I add more dark dead trees.
We visited a Vincent Van Gogh exhibit—he happens to be a favorite of ours—and as we stood mesmerized in the shade of his sunflowers and the shadow of stars I was struck by the pain, the suffering and the sorrow in this brilliant artist’s mind…and the joy he has given to others by the art he left behind.
And it made me think, as I observed in his art the different methods he’d employ, at the relationship there is between one’s suffering and one’s joy.
And it reminded me of something I’ve wondered since I first saw his paintings as a boy…If he hadn’t felt all that sorrow…could he have painted all that joy?
For aren’t we all a mixture of our sunshine and our rain…of every joy we’ve ever felt combined with every pain?
And even though in his lifetime not many people did he reach…
over the years that is exactly what Vincent’s paintings teach…
That our joys…our sorrows…what we feel and how we act is how we are defined…and if we’re lucky when we’re gone…we leave a little joy behind.
Vincent always makes me think like this (did I mention he’s a favorite of ours) as I stand in the and the shade of all his sunflowers and the shadow of his stars
brushed by the blushing Fontainebleau,
blooming with rainless foliage,
like a poem kissed by the green…
I sigh as thoughts wander
in saffron silence,
in the echoing warmth
of your breathing silhouette...
we are beyond wraiths of wildflowers,
waltzing through the wilderness,
sipping honeyed drops of sunlight,
whilst specks of citrine
soar above olives~
merging in mystical mists of magnetic gold,
oblivious to the spectral leaves
thriving within inner forests,
veiling the vindictive vines
painted with ice-corpse colors of life.
O time, cloaked in cryptic clouds~
in a world that cares not for the forgotten,
let the fields of fervent petals
dress the untouched trees
with butterfly-blue blurs,
as peace is more than a mere noun,
nestled between framed figs…
and to heal is to heed the harmonized~
hymns mirroring soft springs of Eden,
where l o v e is an aesthetic array
ribboned with amorous emeralds~
scattered across meadows
lost in redolent reveries.
I speak to the breeze,
cradling the balmy boulevard
in hushed tones~
to unfreeze the wintry thistles,
to untangle complex chords of woes
piercing the pained canvas
aching within my mind..
for in the layered heart
of external pleasures,
there I’ve found the palette~
that homes not regrets and troubles
but elevates the m a g i c
of sketched solace…
the verdant of swirling hope
fine-tuned strokes of sage~
sun-soaked distraction,
a memory of soulmates
tied
to the timeless roots
infused with trust ...
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.
Ars Longa
It finally happened!
Someone in the East Wing
Goateed a Madonna and redid a Rembrant
a la de Kooning.
A blond with Vogue patterns
is crouched on the hall--
She's eyeing a Van Gogh
eyeing her from the wall.
We judge from the blushes
of blue-rinsed ladies in fur
Rude comments were made
on the audio tour.
The guards commandeer
Donatellos for targets
and are cleaning their pistols
with snips of Vermeer.
The staff in the Art Shoppe
is selling originals
and hanging the copies
in Gallery Five.
They're burning the Monets
they've tattooed Apollo,
crowds clamor outside
to get in on the fun.
Cars circle the gallery
in infinite coils--
curbside parturitions
here a boy there a girl.
Van Gogh’s chair sits patiently
with the stubborn dignity
of something that has held
more weight than wood should bear.
Its legs splay slightly,
as if tired from listening
to the long monologues
of a man who painted
as though the world
were always on fire.
A pipe rests on the seat~
a small, domestic witness
to his restless hours,
the way he paced the room
searching for a color
that could tell the truth.
The straw seat glows
with a worn, sunlit patience,
a quiet counterpoint
to the fevered strokes
he left on every wall.
And the room around it
leans in,
holding its breath,
as if the chair
might speak at last
and tell us
what he carried
when he sat down
and let the world
fall away.
Vincent…
This is the time of the year
When I see the ravens and the crows
Especially in an open field...
It's when I think of you…
I catch myself remembering…
I have to stop myself and breathe…
I daydream of our starry nights
I think of the ravens and the crows…
I think about your untimely plight
I wonder if you ever felt like me
If you ever felt my presence near you
And I wonder now….wherever you are
If you ever missed me too.
Could you have ever imagined
Could you have possibly known
That I’d still be thinking of you
Missing you...
After more than one long century.
It’s only been a hundred years or so
Since you severed off your ear
Since you shot yourself
Since you killed yourself
Since you shortened all your years.
If I had been there and loved you
Could I have saved you from yourself
Would it have made a difference
Or would everything have turned out the same
Would we both still be feeling lonely
Would you still be thought insane?
I did love you Vincent
I just could never let it show
I didn’t know how to tell you
Back before these 100 years
I just kept hoping
that somehow you would know.
Whenever I am in Chicago
I visit the Art Institute and sigh
As I gaze upon your starry skies
I stand before your paintings in wonder
And look deep within your eyes.
I always have to ponder
If you painted thinking of me
I know that you always knew
That I loved your greens and vibrant blues
I see that you tried to show me
How the stars reflected you in my eyes
I see the colors that you have chosen
Have always revealed your truth.
When I see your painting
Of the ravens and the crows
I know that you remembered
How the sky that day looked too
How it felt to have autumn ending
And winter closing in
How wonderful that day was
How happy we had been.
The last time we were together
Everything seemed so right and true
I had no idea
Your heart had turned so blue.
Your feelings always hidden
You never said a word
How things would tragically end
There never was a clue.
So now I stand here after 100 years
I still miss you Vincent.
I really, really do.
I wonder if you are thinking of me
And if you are happy or if you are blue.
(November 16, 2010 Wausau, Wisconsin)
(c) Copyright 2010 by Christine A Kysely, All Rights Reserved,
THE VAN GONE MUSEUM
A gleaming, extravagant building.
Filled with jewels of art.
The brainless herd pile in at
their allotted time slot. No thoughts
Zombie tourists flock into the Van
Gogh museum. It doesn’t matter
how many nationalities are there.
Everyone does the same.
Observers drone from one gallery
to another.
Their eyes not even focusing on the
painstaking art.
The portraits and landscapes stare
back at the viewer in
disbelief and disgust.
Please comprehend what I am.
The constant shutter of a camera
can be heard but not the slightest
intellectual thought can be even
fathomed amongst them.
Those photos they taken cannot
even echo the detail of the brush stroke
or slight colour difference.
They are a false facsimile at best.
The painting now a lifeless corpse.
A digital copy is what remains on a
seldom used SD card.
Never to be looked upon again.
A gravity trudges the cattle toward
the famous sunflowers ; not for
artistic merit but for bragging
rights and social media selfies
Although Van Gogh is long dead, it
seems apparent his legacy, his art,
his life’s work is now
Van Gone….
I happen to take Art classes in oils. My teacher directed me to Van Gogh's Flores:
I am not sure what it's called. But I am very impressed with it's colors of yellow, maze and the swirls of a blue vase. It appears that the painting is all swirls. I can't imagine how it was done. But it presents itself as a plain and effortless painting.
As this is all new to me as a new Artist of oil painting, this will be a great challenge. Anything "Blue" is my favorite color.
The painting has brown in its background. I believe judging from the picture it was one of his best masterpieces.
I usually color with pencils, and have very little knowledge in coloring in oils. Again this will be challenging. However, I am going to love it.
One might ask what does this have to do with USPS Stamps? However, I believe the Post Office did select stamps from various Artists and a few were from Van Gogh's Flores: "The Sun Flower" and a picture of Van Gogh himself.
Sea at Les Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer
Van Gogh sat staring at the choppy waters
Nothing yet? His brother asked. He did not reply.
He was in artist mode.
Picked up a brush and began
Splashing white capped waves
Hostile swirling wind especially above fishing boat
Angry storm began taking form
So angry the sails were gone from the boat
Van Gogh was in another world; he could hear no one
Bright titanium white horse emerged at the water’s edge
dark delivery wagon and loan figure made a solid contrast
Van Gogh began using wider curvier strokes,
blending one color after another in ombre fashion
His ideas coming faster and faster now
The sky began taking on new colors, new shades, new hues.
He added a reflection of the boat in the water
Five women waiting for their men on shore
A field of wheat leaning toward the west, torn up by the wind.
It was a furious painting, stormy and magnificent.
He painted this in 1888, the eight such painting
this year, and one of his favorites.
But of course he was not satisfied with it.
So he had to create another one.