‘Vincent could have told you’ A Poetry Challenge

Just Click the Van Gogh image to take you to  some of the comments made about the poems

Everyone has heard ‘Starry Starry Night‘ By Don Mclean,  the beautiful song about Vincent Van Gogh.  There is a line in it which says:_

But I could have told you, Vincent,
This world was never meant for one
As beautiful as you…….

The challenge is to watch the very short video that features all Van Gogh’s self-portrait and imagine what the artist might be trying to convey through these portraits – in other words if he could speak – what do you think he would he want to say to us?  Alternatively you could just write a poem about Van Gogh the man or his work.  The poem can be as profound as you want, or as daft as you like:)  it can be long, short or even a haiku.

Please note;-

The idea behind the challenges is to publicise Bookstains (as well as having creative fun) so therefore it is imperative that the poet link to Bookstains to further the challenge.

 In return the poem is copied to the challenges particular page and the poets own website mentioned with a link and the poem critiqued on not only Bookstains but also on the poets own blog or website.

 If you wouldn’t put the poem on your own blog, please don’t send it to mine and expect me to promote it.  This is a genuine challenge – please play fair:-) 

Please post your poems either under comments – or if you prefer sent me an email and I’ll put them on.

Here’s the first of the poems!  this one is by Kserverny aka Artswebshow.  please check out his blog it’s fantastic!

.

Oh why did the ladies never love me.

.

As i sit here in my velvet chair.

Chains of smoke swirl around me.

My dinner left lingering by the door.

Painting for the purpose of inner peace.

My thoughts, they say.

Oh why did the ladies never love me?

Life looks back in fall.

.

Relying for my income on dear little brother.

Oh the shame, it makes me insane.

I burn and cut for you people.

Yet none will look my way.

Stewing in my little bed.

Oh why did the ladies never love me?

Life looks back in fall.

.

The tormented candle flickers softly now.

Obsessive working grips me tight.

No interest gained off local peers.

I fear my end is in sight.

I softly said.

Oh why did the ladies never love me?

Life looks down in winter.

.

People tread upon the floor.

Above the sunflowers fill them with awe.

Such a valuable epiphany,

Of a time travelled long before.

The painting remains silent.

Ladies flock around him.

Standing proudly on the wall.

 

POEM NO: 2 is by bended spoon who has a very upbeat and positive website – guaranteed to raise a smile (this is the second time he’s made my day!  Please check him out:)

ugh

Van Gogh

are you aware

what you have put me through?

well, echostains

invited me to a poetry challenge

though i am not a poet.

but for the fun of it

here it is.

i see that you are obsessed

with your myriad faces.

don’t tell me you’re not

why paint a lot?

kidding aside,

i admire you man

we both lack self-confidence

but still we want to give happiness.

so i guess what you are trying to say

in your self-portraits is,

‘no sense in taking thy own life

for thy own life has sense’.

Poem No:3 is by Linda Kruschke who has a lovely homely and welcoming blog!  please check it out:)

Vincent Could Have Told You

Faces change
My face changes
With the seasons
With my mood
I paint a changing me

But I remain
Beneath the face
What I call God
That which is love
It does not change

Poem No:4 is by Debbie Feller whose blog has ‘simple poems  and simple faith’ please check it out!

I paint from the mirror
turning away to hide
my bad side
the eyes remain
unchanged.

Poem No:5 is by opoetoo who has a great blog full of poetry and musings – please give it a visit and you won’t be disappointed!

Ground /between stones

I feel the world turn

In your face

Of  clay on canvas

…………………………Rotating

………Pushing

up through the hard ground

Corn for crows to pluck and pillage

……………………… Corn enough

to feed the wonder of this planet

 

Poem No: 6 is by Adam Dustus who is a novelist, poet and graphic artist.  He has a very well established blog and there’s lots to interest poets, writers and artists alike!  Well worth a visit!

Light stricken, anxious eyes
Painting beautiful expressions sublime
Puddling tears that Starry Night
Too late, my work now recognized

Could not foresee what happened to me
Now millions on sales tags
Downloads to computer screens
Broadcasts of honors in stellar HD
Even documentaries all about me
Scandals, art thieves,
Dedicated museum wings
Sunflower posters
Mass produced grief… 

 

Yet curation now kind
Since I razed my prime
They think priceless being
A tortured mind

Only my faces and work survive
Absinthesizing swirls refined
Depression claimed another life
Still art without end
Beyond my time

 

Poem No: 7  is from Steve whose blog ‘Heednotsteve’  has a bit about everything (but mostly fiction and poetry).  its a good one so please give it a visit!

I know you

or at least
I know
your face

pale forehead
and faint brow,
high cheeks

your somber face

the contours
and creases
of it

backwards to me, convenient

set mouth
and the eyes,
I know the eyes

unflinching – I’ve never seen them closed

I know
your face

your sad
serious
face

hopeful and doubtful

as if
I might tell you
something

about you

as if you might
by patient
scrutiny

know me

PoemNo:8 is by Fireblossom.  Her blog Shay’s word garden is full of original poetry.  Check it out!

Vince, hi.

Um…

What? Oh, I’m fine. You’re sweet to ask.

So…

What up?

“Dawg”. Ha ha.

Are you, like, still doing drawings and stuff?

Yeah? You’re pretty good. Seriously, dude.

You should, like, maybe take a class or something.

Have you ever signed up for an art class? No?

I think the community college offers them.

I took, I don’t know, some computer thing there once…it was okay, I guess.

I met Rick there.

Yeah, Rick, this guy I’m seeing, or like, we’re hanging out and that.

Look, Vince, I need to tell you,

You’re a nice guy and all. Some girl is out there for you.

No kidding, a lot of girls really like beards. For real!

My friend, she’s totally all about dudes who look like these mountain men or something.

Hey, I didn’t mean…

It looks good. No lie.

But, Vince,

I’m not really into art or that, and Rick, he’s kind of into the whole surfer, keg party thing.

Well, what I mean is,

Um…

Here’s your ear.

I wrapped it in, I don’t know, this napkin from Chicken Shack.

I didn’t, like, use it at all, it’s clean.

Maybe they can re-attach it?

But dude, seriously,

Don’t, like, send me the other one or anything, you know?

It’s gross, I have to be honest with you.

Really thoughtful,

But,

Gross. As hell.

What were you thinking?

Oh, c’mon,

Don’t go all crumpled looking,

My dog does that and I can’t deal.

He’s at my mom’s now…

Well, I know, like you care, right? I just ramble, whatever.

Sorry.

So, check out those art classes.

Maybe you could even sell one of your paintings?

Use the money to buy a new jacket or something.

Good luck, Vince.

I gotta run, Rick hates it if I keep him waiting.

Peace, out.

And no more ears!

Later, dude!

(walk

walk

walk

keys

car door slamming

engine starting

lipstick adjustment in rearview mirror)

*sigh*

What a fucking nut case!

Poem No: 9 is our first Haiku and its contributed by the wonderful Eva from the equally wonderfully artistic and poetical blog  47whitebuffalo. There’s lots of goodies there – please call in:)

eyes catching light play

all ways fleeting here to there

oranges splashing blues

 

Our 10th poem is by Dawn Runs Amok  (D.C. McKenzie) who has a lovely poetry and music blog here.  The poem is called Fou Roux.  The author is an avid fan of Vincent Van Gogh and this was written especially for the 120th memorial of the artists’ death.

Fou Roux ~the redheaded madman

~by D.C. McKenzie

i.
Thirty good and wholesome
townspeople of Arles, neighbors all,
have had your yellow house closed by the cops
And you, Vincent, saw your worst fear come to pass
as, at last, you were hauled off to the Asylum.

There it took three days of solitary
confinement to regain your Self.

Gauguin is gone. It is true, Paul has left:
but not before it was too late
to stop the juggernaut of sorrow and arrest.
(and by the way, Paul Gauguin
you windbag, you…cross-eyed thief,

it had been raining for days on end—
how did you hear his footstep
so soft behind you in the downpour?
In the darkness, without lamp or light—
how did you see the blade with which
you claim Vincent menaced you so?)

ii.
You are scared now, Vincent…aren’t you?
All about you are the insane and their keepers.
Have you come to believe the vicious gossip?
Has it truly come to that at the last? Madness?

Or is it a worse ailment? Failure.
Not as an artist before the public,
that fickle beast, you know too well

it was never really about acceptance
rather, a failure to render your vision into reality.

That, I fear, is what broke you—so finally, so completely.
Now, you are surrounded by chaos and heartbreak.
Bedlam brimming in broken minds: without order, without colour,
as if you have been cast upon a fey, monochrome wind.

Alas too, the sky above you has become foreboding,
pressing upon you as much so as the pressure of poverty
skulking in the shade. For to be a burden upon Theo
and his family is a thing you loathe most of all.

There is so much that I will never understand.
Yet, this I truly know, Vincent:

Hunger is nothing next to Emptiness
(don’t believe? try it.)
—a hideous non-thing that steals away our very senses.

Of emptiness there can be no solace.
It is a thing every suicide instinctively knows.
In the end, it is not loneliness, but emptiness
which we seek to escape; and by which we are undone.

iii.
The sky, hitherto your collaborator,
your vista upon a far too vivid Now, is shuttered.
It has become a coffer of looming cobalt clouds.
In this Now, even absinthe and spirits cannot ease the pain
or bring surcease to the seizure and the sorrow.

Smiling a scarecrow smile to even behold it—

the sunlight which was once your gilded muse,

once your benevolent ally in a hostile world,

huddles forlorn in your cell

caught in a corner of the ceiling

where your brush cannot reach.

A sun that is present only amidst fields

populated by an unkindness of crows.

Furrowed ground lies beneath hulking slate-blue skies
and wheat sheaves, bound into pyre-like haystacks,
which you have roughly carved in cadmium and ochre
on a canvas barely able to withstand your demands.

Although they make much of the crows,
it is the blackviolet vault of the sky
which brings a stab of empathy
for the agony and despair of your last days.
Thunderclouds roiling greyblue
broken by oblique rays of a mantled, yet majestic, sun.

Oh, they make much of the crows, but…no, Vincent,
it is the turmoil of the skies that signaled your peril.

 

Wheat Field with Crows~Auvers 1890

Our 11th poem is a Haiku from Abigail Parker who does a Haiku a day all the year around!  her blog is here

In the night cafe
Reeling orange and absinthe green
Half-drunk, I step back.

Heres a Haiku from Tigerbrite whose interesting blog has a poetry section as well as posts about The Tree of Life and the planet Cyberluz!  Please take a look!

Penetrating eyes

peer from colourful brush strokes

on living canvas

 Copyright Tigerbrite