"arles" poems
I gaze the wheat field
gusts of wind erupt and impede to the very end
crows take flight towards the blood red Sun
he calls them back
rests his weary hands and tired eyes
before the long walk into town
his silhouette fades as I awaken
to view the captured image that hangs
from my wall
Feb 20, 2022
Feb 20, 2022 at 5:21 PM UTC
Twirling madly with his stars
In Arles
Surrounded by night at the café
Where he drank pastis
Bonding
With his sun illuminated wheat
Taking a walk among
The wind blown cypress trees
His girating irises
His spinning suns
Loosing my eyes
in his self portrait of red hair
intent stare
Of genius
How sad ...they never told you
What a giant you were
Colette Anne Naegle
copyrights 2005
Feb 28, 2012
Feb 28, 2012 at 9:41 AM UTC
Joseph Kern had never seen The Starry Night,
Had he been there, the parsonage across
Van Gogh’s memory, leading to Arles or somewhere else,
Had he been there, he could have thrown the pebbles he
Collected that flew through his window
In the afternoons he eavesdropped.
I like to think that Joseph Kern has seen The Starry Night
While somebody played the
Violin Concerto No. 2 in E Major, BWV 1042: II. Adagio
I like to imagine him amongst the thickly applied whorls of paint,
I like him across the English Channel, waiting with one of
Rita’s puppies, echoing the sky-
Not as it looks but how as it feels.
May 1, 2018
May 1, 2018 at 3:00 AM UTC
I lose myself in 'View at Arles with Irises'
and wonder how close I am to seeing Vincent
standing in that field
fighting the wind
frustrated at never quite seeing the pure expression
in his head
realized on canvas
I would tell him I see it
I know it as he does
he looks pensively at the beauty he has created
slowly raises his head
and unseen in the portraits
there comes a smile
he sets the brush aside
lights his pipe
and begins to tell the story
of the smoking skull
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 6:06 PM UTC
The sound of Christian’s voice stirs me, awake
the vision of undulating ridges—verdant—
as my head falls, slowly, the window of the van
a glimpse of light through the rock on water
My coup de foudre. Southern France
with winding roads and biking hills
Take me to where the Ardèche flows.
Goodbye to the sweater shed from shoulder.
Lunch eaten fresh in October by the river.
Comté and baguette spread on our blanket.
We are off to Nîmes
Where butterflies are chased, beneath the bridge
the water rushes below me.
Delicate steps.
In Arles, the Rhône
where I can dream.
A quiet stream only for me
and those whose memory swims on
behind the easel—
natural and wild—so near—
masked by morning mist
that brushes, alters, clouds Vincent’s canvas
to a “foggy day over the Rhône,” we should say
and an old painting feels like home under
the stars. Am I free?
River scintillates in the dark of night
where I sit. The reflection is of me.
Dec 11, 2022
Dec 11, 2022 at 3:43 PM UTC
How does it feel to be disliked by your whole village
But loved by a world you never got to know
Arles never once treated you with the same beauty as you saw in it
Concern for your wellbeing never came from the people you passed
Not even after they learned that you had taken your last breath
Your memory contained nothing but whispered rumors
They painted the picture of the madman who kept no company
Disregarding the compassion that flowed out of you
Only some knew the truth and what events molded
The trauma that shaped the man who frequented empty fields
Auvers-sur-Oise knew you as a separate man entirely
They stole pieces of you that you did not even have of yourself
Made you their crown jewel, nothing more than a story to keep the town alive
No part of your legacy remained untouched, just as no relationship you’d held stayed pure
Your own doctor claimed your art and in turn your reputation for himself
But how were you to have stopped them
Especially when you were not around to plead for anything different
How does it feel to be disliked by your whole village
But loved by a world you never got to know
Feb 15, 2019
Feb 15, 2019 at 11:29 AM UTC
What's thrown off by the wayside's
kept up by the whir...Van Gogh's
legendary tussle with the sun in Arles.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 1:19 AM UTC
There was an Old Person of Crete,
Who walked on his hands, not his feet;
When they asked why it was, he responded, "Because,"
That taciturn Person of Crete.
There was an Old Person of Finland,
Whose cabin was upland and inland;
He lived in a region where the fish spoke Norwegian,
That flapperous Person of Finland.
There was an Old Man of Geneva,
Who had an encounter with Shiva;
They patty-cake played in a hornet-loud glade,
Shiva and the Man of Geneva.
There was a Young Lady of Paris,
Whom ****** couldn't embarrass;
She wandered the city with ***** and *****
Exposed to the city of Paris.
There was an Old Husband of Arles,
Whose wife had a passion for quarrels;
All day and all night she'd invite him to fight,
That exhausted Old Husband of Arles.
There was an Old Man of Kyoto,
Who mastered supremely the koto;
His tea was the greenest, his dragon the meanest,
His playing the best in Kyoto.
There was an Old Man of Algiers,
Who listened with elephant ears
To streams and to trees and to birds and to bees
That delighted the Man of Algiers.
There was a Young Lady of Arles,
Who married a ****** named Charles;
When they asked, "Does it fit?" she replied, "Not a bit!"
That unsatisfied Lady of Arles.
There was an Old Man with a beard,
Whose ****** expressions were weird;
He'd grimace when glad and he'd twinkle when sad,
That curious Old Man with a beard.
There was an Old Man
Of Japan,
Whose limericks would never
Ever
Scan, that instupendious Old Man of Japan.
Feb 26, 2025
Feb 26, 2025 at 9:57 AM UTC