Sunday, February 3, 2013

Pictures at a Gallery: Vincent Van Gogh


Against the rows of translucent eyes,

They paused, with their clumsily head-sets

Hanging half on and off, flashing the ecliptic's

Troubled furrows with smart-phones "referencing"

The sad genius as an obvious, immutable fact,

In that solitary figure sowing his seminal seeds

Against a yellowed, thickly cut, sun's swirling light

Beckoning his nature, through a rhythmic, purposeful

Stride- was he the measure of her whole creation-

Pressing the friable clays between his rough, sure hands?

The grains will gather in another year's ripeness

And disperse their inconspicuous vitality on the loose strands

Lost through this endless crowds' shuffling, quietly by him,

The pictures becoming  pictures, like Brugel's blind leading the blind

Through an immaculate gallery you would of despised

The strict geometrical emptiness of our pure pristine shapes

Transversing some abstract, universal terrain, without man or beast

No shadow would of ever fallen to fertilise your barren land-

Yet they appalled and maddened your frenzied mind - to rage-

 A crazed fist at the crows circling the reaper's blue heaven.

Yet, the wisest and the stupidest have their ultimate measure-

Not in waxed galleries where faces become nothing more

Than a travesty, but in parched canvass, where you were always

Alone, under fiery rays, waiting for God's secret revelations. 

The Reaper, Van Gogh Gallery Amsterdam