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Vincent van Gogh
Vincent van Gogh
So deeply and madly misunderstood,
A pauper's death you knew.
I wonder if now you hear the praise
So late come to rest on you.
I wonder if your tortured eyes now see
The belated critic's review.
Does it rankle to know your hated "Sunflowers"
Could sell for a million or two?
How does it feel to have died from despair
And now see the lauding? The praise?
Is there some satisfaction realizing at last
The acceptance that eluded your days?
How many times did your visage grow dark
From derision, and mocking, and pain?
Ah, Vincent van Gogh, if you came back to life
Would they do it all over again?
Your genius was loaned from a Heavenly bank
That exacted an interest so high,
Depression became a deep haunting hole,
By your talented hand you would die.
You’ve painted a portrait with words worthy of this great master. Glorious . . . and the artwork made it even more exquisite. I loved this like a dream on a starry night. Pat
Jessica, this is a great collection, poetry, song and paintings, I'm sure Vincent would have been proud.
Excellent work.
Andrew
I had to write a comment here because Van Gogh is one of my favourites too. I also love the song about him, "Starry, Starry Night". Anyway I think you're right in what you are saying here, all arists must feel that way to a certain extent. How is it that the people who seem to profit most from art are not the artists themselves?
"It Wasn't A Starry Night"
I missed. Yes, a bullet in my heart
would have worked, but I missed.
I failed as my own executioner, just as
I failed as an artist and as your lover.
Even failed with you, Bon Mlle. Putain.
Oh!, yes, your rejection, mon Putain,
I felt your rejection of me, over and over,
as friend, as artiste, and as lover,
just as I felt impaled on the critic's barbs.
And, so, now, I lay here, again impaled.
But now on this short, cold, leaden bullet,
drilled into my breast; a hateful comment.
But I missed my heart; my OWN heart!
Just as I missed YOUR heart, sweet-heart.
My chosen-to-be-beloved, mon coeur doux!
(My flowers, how do they seem now to you?
my clouds? Do you see them? And my dream?
"Les etoilles", les reves, les nuages,
do you share them, now? Oh!, I longed to know!)
This hole of depression would be bearable
if this mania of Love weren't so high!
(and it took my heart three more days to die.)
And NONE of the nights were Starry Nights.
I lay here, and it is not a starry night.
Bonsoir
"Poe" I'm not, nor "Rich" am I,
but I'll be famous, b'ye and b'ye !