I am a country of soft spoken words and inspiring views
Having birthed masters and illustrious change
Atop my rivers, my cobblestone gardens,
And cathartic ateliers.
I am a room in Arles, an escape from Paris to the Yellow Hope
Of bed, pillow and stark, wooden planks—I remain frozen
In austere beauty from within the mind of one who slept
Here, celebrated still.
I am a flower, bowing to sun, moon and dour heart
Bobbing cheer and bright bloom, from eye
To canvas to multiple renditions by
An anguished heart.
I am the friend to the friendless man who sprinkled my room
With Provencal sun, welcomed me in tender displays
Of love and grandeur turned into a night of
Raging razor madness.
I am a town, Auvers-sur-Oise, where rest two brothers side by side in repose
And Paul Gachet’s Garden amongst once Thatched Cottages lay
Aside Fields aflame with Poppies. There, within an attic room
He produced a most astounding caliber of art.
I am a field of wheat, where I have been romanced in lights of morning,
Noon and night; aureate sways erected like rods of gold on canvases
And am as valued as ancient sarcophagi. I have been lived upon
And bled upon with drops from the immortal and iconic.
I am a portrait etched with disquieting lines, yet filled in with color to occupy the gaps.
I reveal the inner part of this man who cleverly lies upon his canvas bed
Hiding yet open wide to the world, like rings within trees,
It tells of me like a mirror, for I am he.
I am a person with fragile mind, dipping below into wide, monster seas
Then rising to gulp sanity, and back down in a cycle of life, like rain
From the sea to sky, then upon the canvas again I brush with gusto
To breathe life back into me, but I fall exhausted.
I AM holds my arms and sweeps the sky. Together we paint to begin the sunrise
Where colors bring joy, not driven to prove their worth to sunrise nor sunset,
Neither need they prove my worth to mankind through resplendent strokes.
It does not define and they are not mine.
For I am His and I am me; the world remembers my name.
But that through my name they may know
What Vincent in His arms can be.
Il repose ici.
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