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Surkhab kaur Jul 20
"Artists...artists are like butterflies...
They have delicate hearts
But this society can't handle them..."
My mother answered as I told her
about Vincent van Gogh...
The Starry Night painter
was once said to be happy in London ...
With a rainbow heart and sky mind
He drenched the canvas with his emotions
People unaware of this legend
put him in an asylum...
'cause the decieved Vincent cut his ear lobe!
But he paints and brushes
were still there...just like his brother.
He was 37... when voices were all over his mind
It was not easy to stop them...
So he picked up the gun...
And the bullet went straight to that golden heart
I wonder how many colors died that day....?
But I could have told you, Vincent
This world was never meant for one as beautiful as you..."
                                                                                              - Don Mclean (Vincent)
The wind's fingers reached into his collar,
pinching him with the cold
With another stroke of the paintbrush
The blue mixed with the gold

The walkers who ventured o’re the shore
Stared at the mumbling man
Whose teeth were stained with yellow
And drank to calm shaking hands

The burning lights blurred in the water
Pooling refractions and ripples
He captured the heavenly bodies
As the canvas he covered in stipples

Azure he blended with the indigo,
canary and honey and flax
The cool and the warm melded in one
candle and moon, wane and wax

Soft falls the light in the harbor
The stillness of night overcast
In the river he cleans off his brushes
And turns round for home at the last.
Jana Pelzom Feb 26
Sun flower
Oh fun flower,
My compass to a life much brighter,
And the fighter of my darker days!
The strokes of each petal
Blows all my worries away,
Van Gogh loved these creations
And I his today,
His yellow has seeped
into my world and saves me without any delay,
Slowly, my paintbrush now wears
After all these growing years,
A mild layer of yellow
Like my soul calmed to a mellow,
And faintly a glow spreads
Among my own sunflowers
To a much brighter sun shiny day.
Sunflower ©️2021 Jana Pelzom

I wrote this on request for my lovely artist friend.
Norman Crane Oct 2020
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.
RCurtis Oct 2020
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.
Norman Crane Sep 2020
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.
lua Aug 2020
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
this lovely
starry night.
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
I turned
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
As if 
We, the Impressionists!
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