And at night I go out and paint the stars.
-- Vincent Van Gogh
Another sky in the weather
of the mind –
clear, so clear –
the sky rages
and swoops;
cold, no wind;
I am sure there is no wind:
the sky
can move of its own
accord.
of the mind –
clear, so clear –
the sky rages
and swoops;
cold, no wind;
I am sure there is no wind:
the sky
can move of its own
accord.
I see too clearly,
and there is no sedative
for this. Sunlight
or darkness,
I am in pursuit
of focus;
and there is no sedative
for this. Sunlight
or darkness,
I am in pursuit
of focus;
I have always believed
in the extremes, and this extremity has left me
in exile
with my insight.
The flaws in my perception
cannot be cured
with prescription,
this is not a matter of lenses
but vision;
I know what I see
and I know that I am seeing.
in the extremes, and this extremity has left me
in exile
with my insight.
The flaws in my perception
cannot be cured
with prescription,
this is not a matter of lenses
but vision;
I know what I see
and I know that I am seeing.
It is not
that I cannot be helped;
I do not wish to be.
that I cannot be helped;
I do not wish to be.
What some perceive as violence
comes to me
as peace, waves
of comfort
comes to me
as peace, waves
of comfort
swirling about my head and before my eyes
into beauty.
into beauty.
I have come to view these distortions
as my clarity,
an emancipation
from the commonplace,
though I embrace
the common.
I learned from my time with the miners
that the world is a cave –
above or below ground –
we are all trapped,
and it is dark.
But there are stars
and I must acknowledge them.
as my clarity,
an emancipation
from the commonplace,
though I embrace
the common.
I learned from my time with the miners
that the world is a cave –
above or below ground –
we are all trapped,
and it is dark.
But there are stars
and I must acknowledge them.
I am aware that I love too well
and in my failure to requite
my dreams
my inamorata, this life,
does not love me.
How could she?
She does not see what I see,
she does not trust the impulses
of my terrible passion.
I love people, I love
the world, I lavish them
with red and yellow,
blue and green
letting the colors
do everything.
It seems that only I can see
that they
deserve it.
I walk,
then paint these landscapes
of my hunger, I want to love
and devour –
and in my failure to requite
my dreams
my inamorata, this life,
does not love me.
How could she?
She does not see what I see,
she does not trust the impulses
of my terrible passion.
I love people, I love
the world, I lavish them
with red and yellow,
blue and green
letting the colors
do everything.
It seems that only I can see
that they
deserve it.
I walk,
then paint these landscapes
of my hunger, I want to love
and devour –
I will suffocate on my ardor;
I know that.
I know that.
Look at those stars,
are they not a map
of heaven?
Why should I not describe
them; we shall all get there
soon enough
are they not a map
of heaven?
Why should I not describe
them; we shall all get there
soon enough

