I weep in gold dust fields over which his blackbirds fly
in the museum
and they cry: "ominous, ominous"
can't you see it in the skies? truculent is the world
toward the artist who only loved the sun.
yet in his letters home
in three brilliantly lucid volumes.
closely read his colorist desire to
use all colours well and unforgettably
but, Dear Theo, colours cost money-
how much it cost him to go without
them making do with yellow and yellow
iterations
only he knew.
somewhere beyond
the marigold's sigh,
couldn't you weep anew
said the angel by my side
(sheer sunflower glow)
in the hope of his Heavenly
fields, post murder and not, suicide-
when, burst like a light upon him,
all he did not understand;
where wild rose fields are climbing toward a sun
that cannot dim, vermillion.
and in the skies a freshly minted green
is ornate as the heart could wish that loved that much;
emphatic as a heartbeat are the brushstrokes' impact
viewed from this side only, clear amber crystalized in
the thick honey of days unbelievably
made of poverty, disdain,
of painting in the rain
while the neighbors spied on him and
cawed against his sanity; were they sane?
it's slow tears I am crying now
crystalized in the poem-
all amber gone by now
for the misplaced poet hardly anyone read
closely or otherwise while he was alive; allegro or penseroso
as the golden scores were played unfinished-
as they had to be and second-guessed,
long years without the sun;
oh then- as now-
sub-lunar, distant are the puppeteers of
docentry everywhere but not
the field flowers.
may it be said, though I am no painter,
it isn't for him I mourn
nor for the rolling auctions
of a heart that never could be dead ah,
how they must have said in the days that followed
(the gathering angels of his harvest)
but who will befriend now
the orphaned haloes of his stars
mary angela douglas 17 november 2013;revised, 6 december 2013
No comments:
Post a Comment