Let's lose our minds amongst the olive trees
Labyrinth of oiled imagination
Twirl like falling leaves / falling to our knees
in unbalanced joy and veneration
of ourselves. For there is nobody else
but us; there is no other time but now,
Red flowers bloom. A blue shadow propels
a still landscape into being somehow
fluid. Timelessly we swim, wet within
each brush stroke branch and painted wave of wild
emancipation—to forget the din
of the wretched asylum. Vincent smiled:
Dive too deep and you shall go insane,
The olive grove remains the other side of the pane.
Inspired by Vincent van Gogh's painting of the same name.
A starry night he did proclaim
with hues and stokes so untamed,
he layed on with palette knife.
The twirls and swirls of gold
above the dormant village old,
despite his own inner strife.
Stars played cheerfully around,
restful hues on slumbering town
as though, sleeping with his wife.
While the sun awaited to arise
shadows of wheat black to his eyes,
he turned the heavens into wildlife.
Locked in his cold dismal room,
he painted not of his true gloom,
but of a dreamy, wonderous life.
To favourite my painting and artist, The Starry Night by painter Vincent van Gogh. Painted in June 1889, from the east-facing window of his asylum room at Saint-Rémy-de-Provence, he awaited the sunrise.
A billiard table imprints its damp shadow
on a yellow wooden floor. The game still
unbegun, mere fragment of the sorrow
felt by the patrons whose wilted heads will
still be here tomorrow, if tomorrow comes.
Red walls distended by burning lamps
and burned out hearts beating blood through ear drums:
Reverie to the night god / Dreaming tramps
drowning in their heads in lakes of absinthe
color of the ceiling better than being
awake but indefinitely absent.
The lamps blink, eyes floating, speak all-seeing:
Vincent, let us meet before you entreat
the crows out of your head into the wheat.
Inspired by Vincent van Gogh's painting The Night Café.
the solemn sighs in empty halls
these vacant thoughts that line the walls
a chilly breeze through a midnight flare
waiting for the heavens to bear
to bear a heart that's ice cold and blue
thawing in the light of the moon
and with each beat that pains, that hurts
that explodes into starbursts
of woad and gold in the vastness of the sky
on this lonely
I have in me a bit of Tuscan sun
The wildness of mistral
The calmness of a Cezanne village
I often walk around the countryside of Pissaro
And see the colors, still abundant, undefeated
I stroll around the lilies and the harbor of France where Manet painted being thrown out of his house, not able to pay the rent
I dance with the beautiful girls in high society Parisian parties of whom from Zola to Maugham spoke about
I learn art in silence, in the bright orange color of the day drawing the French young girl
Whose face is like Madonna
Her innocence, her laughter, her flawless body
Excite me, breaks me, creates me
I walk with clean head and red wine in the streets of Montmartre
Searching the gone and dusted studio of Renoir, Picasso, Monet
I stand exactly there where there is nothing old except the moon
And the Sacre Couer
In the morning I take the first train to Auvers Sur Oise
And walk into the cemetery
Where lie in the gorgeous French sun
Vincent and Theo Van Gogh
I utter to them, "Can dream ever be false?"
It is when I heard the footsteps
The girl in the yellow dress stands at the gate of the cemetery
Whom I draw every day but never captured her beauty
The French girl
We both stand there as it is
We, the Impressionists!
Yellow wasn’t always my favourite colour, but I once read that Vangogh swallowed yellow paint in an effort to know happiness;
so I chose to be that for people.
You could chew me up and spit me back out and I’d still shine for you.
But when the skies are overcast,
and the clouds weep;
and you hear the thunder roll in,
I’ll be the yellow paint you swallow.
Only this time, the happiness stays,
and you don’t have to cut your ear off
in order to win my heart.
I may be my own yellow now, but I’ll be the colour of sunshine for you too.
you are to me as yellow was to van gogh.
but then again,
yellow was the color
of the july sunsets we missed
when we were puppeteering
the glitches in our words.
it was the color of autumn —
its night, when we first made out
and left permanent scratches
on the hood of your daddy's car,
its leaves - a deep feuille morte;
like the scent of my hair from yours.
it was the color
of the light —
back when we lived
for early morning kisses
on coffee-stained tables,
when the world was still asleep.
it was the color of the first sunray
that crept through my blinds
after two days of raining —
darling, that was day 4
after you left.
it was the color of the rose petals —
a mess on the floor
as we listened to a bulk
of lonely playlists —
love, it would take corrosive agents
to dismantle the songs —
and probably the memories too,
that unlike you,
you are to me as yellow was to van gogh.
it was under the bouts of madness
that he ate the paint,
thinking that happiness could be ingested.
and darling you are to me as yellow was to van gogh.
I'm drunk and the skies are a little hazy, and the stars, a little like Van Gogh's, but tonight, I'm still an astronaut angling metaphors from the mesophere and you're still the moon to which these poems orbit around.
Night stirs, stars surging
in the hushed & vigorous
That void, ambient
in its design, holds artistry
and grace. Stars burst through veil
highlighting an ebony spire,
whose apex threatens
with beauty beyond
Their juxtaposition, a dance,
of heat and light and dark.
a poem inspired by Van Gogh's A Starry Night