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| Vincent van Gogh, Dutch, Self Portrait, 1889, Oil on Canvas, National Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C. |
Days pass into the weak, loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath Van Gogh's brush as he links.
Comet light passes twisted cypresses, a schizophrenic's concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightning bugs mimic the stars. Atoms sneer.
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| The Starry Night, 1889, Vincent van Gogh, Oil on Canvas, Museum of Modern Art |
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him, sneering.
Their images dance beneath his lids when he blinks.
Though denied a compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, he still connects, links
with the life which absorbs and excludes him, not complaining.
Nights pass without his mistress, Sien. His mind concussive.
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| Trees in the Asylum Garden, 1889, Vincent Van Gogh, Oil on Canvas, Private Collection, U.S.A. |
His torn face trembles in the brass sounds
of the storm's concussions.
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker all sneer.
How unmerciful, this cycle,
this God to whom he does not complain.
If lack of mercy is just, may he not know why? Time blinks.
Thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him, links.
He accepts pain and art as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
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| Road with Men Walking, Carriage, Cypress, Star, and Crescent Moon, 1890, Vincent Van Gogh, Oil on Canvas, Kroller-Muller Museum, Otterio |
Voices, the paint, the moon, the voices say reciprocate.
He chases mice. The cheese plate
falls with a loud concussion.
He rubs his gnarled hands across his lids,
maintaining the link.
How? Why? But, the mice eating his cheese sneer.
The sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in their vase,
as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls attempting to sit,
the chair does not complain.
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| Vincent Van Gogh, The Vase With 12 Sunflowers |
He had thought God clear as sunlight,
yet the paint complained.
He was not God; he could not capture the light.
He must reciprocate.
After all, who was he, but a mere man,
ashes to dust, life blinks.
Ah death, le grand mal, no minor concussion,
He must escape, join the celestial spin, avoid their sneers.
Sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, not linking.
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| Vincent Van Gogh, Self-Portrait with Bandaged Ear, 1889, Oil on Canvas, Courtauld Institute Galleries, London |
The brushes call. He prostitutes himself. Linseed oil spills, connecting, linking.
Theo, brother, never would he forgive.
Many would complain.
Ah, Gauguin, His dear friend, he would understand
and not sneer.
If God was truly a loving God surely, he thought,
God will not reciprocate.
These mockers who did not live in Dante’s nine levels of hellish concussion,
they will call his actions cowardly. Merciless. They did not live in the blinks.
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| Pollard Willows With Setting Sun, 1888, Vincent Van Gogh, Kroller-Muller Museum, Otterio |
Gifted brightest hues, the link to sun and moon,
lost without reciprocation.
Complaining no more to the sky as each cerebral pulse brings concussion.
Blood twines at his feet. No longer would they sneer at Sien. Vincent blinks.
~ Debbie Guzzi
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