See the painter on
his way to work al fresco,
Toting bags with an
easel under his arm,
His straw hat gold as
the cobbled road in sunlight,
And that dark,
constant companion, his shadow.
He passes the
peasants reaping or sowing in fields,
Bent dark over their
tools from daybreak to sunset
Before finding his
place and the day’s way to work.
When his feet stop
walking, his hands start to paint,
For it is his way to
work, work, work:
Presto, stroke, dab,
smear, swirl, impasto,
In perpetual motion
at one with his eye;
Work, work, work and
the pictures come:
Presto, stroke, dab,
smear, swirl, impasto,
As the world rolls
and turns around him,
The wheat and clouds
and windmills,
Rocks and trees and
furrows
Radiate through
sunlight to twilight,
Past long shadows and
low crows
Whose black wings
bring the storm
Into the world’s
changing form,
Through moonlight to
starlight,
Dusk to dawnlight.
(2012)
The painting above is called 'The Painter On His Way To Work'. Like its creator, it came to an unfortunate end, being destroyed in a fire during World War 2. it was the main inspiration for the poem although I'd always wanted to write one about Van Gogh since visiting the Amsterdam gallery where so many of his works are on show.
The painting above is called 'The Painter On His Way To Work'. Like its creator, it came to an unfortunate end, being destroyed in a fire during World War 2. it was the main inspiration for the poem although I'd always wanted to write one about Van Gogh since visiting the Amsterdam gallery where so many of his works are on show.
No comments:
Post a Comment