The Last Days of Van Gogh (poem)

The Last Days of Van Gogh

 

 

I believe this is a fact:

the only artist that is truly appreciated

is a dead one

for there is a finite number

of completed canvasses stacked in

dry cellars for the art dealers

to handle

 

a live artist has too many infinite

possibilities & versions to try

I have said this many times

to my brother Theo

 

*

 

I am translating this world

its landscapes, buildings & people

& myself amongst it

 

I want you to see the shifting layers:

the cobalt blues, chromium yellows,

emerald greens, & vermilions

that are pressed into the canvas,

the crooked churches, the

tall dark cypresses, the sunflowers I

painted for Gauguin in the Yellow House,

the pine trees in the asylum

 

*

 

every canvas I paint is one less

variation or piece of night sky daubed

with large white blots of stars

 

I work in more & more of myself

until

 

I merge with the paints &

there is nothing left

 

*

 

Auvers is so real

the world is so real,

but so dull, unimaginative

& lacking understanding

 

I write to Theo: We can

only make our pictures speak

& I am risking my life for it

 

this is true

 

*

 

today I am painting a canvas

of yellow wheatfields & black

smudges of crows, there are three

pathways with no direction, no way

to escape

 

a dark storm

beckons

 

 

Joanne Fisher

 

 

This poem first appeared on my blog in December 2017.

 

 

©2019 Joanne Fisher

 

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