"auvers" poems
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
framed
paused
Frozen
We, the Impressionists!
Aug 8, 2020
Aug 8, 2020 at 8:45 AM UTC
Let’s greet at the Church at Auvers,
And allow gates to uncover
Dewy daisies and dug up skulls
And crystalline spheres full of love.
Let’s meet at the Church at Auvers,
And behold our hearts as lovers
Where the moon glints its purple light
And our youth and fire shine so bright.
Let’s kiss at the Church at Auvers,
And let ourselves rediscover
Golden bulbs of precious life
Of luck and laugh of love so rife.
Let’s wed at the Church at Auvers.
At midnight, unknown, undercover;
Soft moon-kissed skin touching skin,
Lives entwined, lovers with a grin.
Let us leave the Church at Auvers,
And let’s dance across this river,
Towards an ardent red sunrise
Of perpetual paradise.
Jan 22, 2021
Jan 22, 2021 at 6:57 PM UTC
I have traced your steps for years,
since I first saw your ships sailing
on the sandy shore, still looking as if
they had found their perfect reach.
You sang my madness on canvas
with green fiery torches of trees
exploding from gently rolling hills.
You created the same masks as I
as you painted your stark reality
in cheery yellow and orange,
lying to your brother that all was well.
Your portrait mirrors mine with eyes
that see the world whirl by
in excruciating precision
(even the parts which make most cringe).
When I have exhausted myself,
I comfort in the tenderness
of your brush on the faces of
men and women working
themselves to early graves.
A building for you alone in Amsterdam,
your final work hangs downstairs;
a tangled jumble, swirls and slabs
of pigments and oil, ultimately ugly
from five feet away. Wandering through,
I ended up three stories up and
a hundred feet away.
The wheat waved in the winds,
and the larks took flight
as if spooked by the farmer's dog.
Glorious light from the Auvers sun
filled the space between your vision
and mine. I sobbed for you then,
to have been torn from self
so violently that if
you shouted to yourself
you likely couldn't hear.
Small wonder you pulled the trigger,
because the wheat field you spread
on a table-sized landscape
sat beside the graveyard where
you and Theo lay side by side.
As I walked along, the only place
you could see the field and the paths
was with your back against the wall.
Family in Amsterdam,
too few friends in Paris,
the short walk to the cold
respite of the Church
no longer worth the breath spent.
Nowhere else to go,
nothing else to see,
too little paint left
to try again.
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 2:39 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