I've written a lot of poems over the years. They are gifts, of sorts, to myself. I'm reminded to read through them now and again. Some time ago, I wrote a series of pieces about Van Gough's paintings. Here's one of them:
About Van Gough
It was never about the splash of fire
in the petals of sunflowers,
or the midnight sky circling
a starry night.
Nor was it the incessant babbling of color
that filled an empty canvas with lilies and hay.
No, always
it was something mirrored
in the startled faces of coal miners
as they climbed out of the darkness they ingested daily
leaving the earth
for the painful brilliance of sun.
About Van Gough
It was never about the splash of fire
in the petals of sunflowers,
or the midnight sky circling
a starry night.
Nor was it the incessant babbling of color
that filled an empty canvas with lilies and hay.
No, always
it was something mirrored
in the startled faces of coal miners
as they climbed out of the darkness they ingested daily
leaving the earth
for the painful brilliance of sun.
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