Vincent van Gogh, “Wheatfield with Crows,” [Public Domain] Wikipedia Commons
crow calls, beckoning,
rosy-robed sun arises,
new day awakens
with murdered conversation,
echoes in black-winged flutter
I’m still waiting for the sun to rise. This tanka is for Frank’s Hakai challenge (crow) and Colleen’s Tanka Tuesday. And another van Gogh–because you can feel the movement and hear the echoes in this one.
“This morning I saw the countryside from my window a long time before sunrise, with nothing but the morning star, which looked very big,”
–Vincent van Gogh to Theo, Saint-Rémy, France, 1889
“For myself, I declare I don’t know anything about it. But the sight of the stars always makes me dream.”
–Vincent van Gogh, letter to his broth Theo, July 1888
It was midday, but we saw stars,
swirling lines
and colored bars
65,000 hand-painted frames
aiming to depict the art and life
the vision, the strife
artistry in different forms–the imagination
to take his art, recreate, use animation
caught us,
and we flowed with the waves of light
through bright days and starry nights.
Vincent loved
his brother, Theo.
Wrote letters,
long missives
every day penning his thoughts
on art, love, and life
The movie involved a bit of mystery
born not just from art, but from Vincent’s history
of writing these letters to brother Theo
and so
Postman Joseph Roulin
Sends his son to deliver one
found after Vincent’s death
Armand travels, meets the people with whom Vincent interacted
Vincent van Gogh, “Dr. Paul Gachet,” [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
Learns what they felt, and how they reacted
to his art and eccentricities,
some charged, by his electricity,
others repelled,
the story told almost Rashomen-style
different versions of the artist and the man
and we’re left to understand him, as best we can.
An artist for a few years only,
failing at other careers,
art dealer, missionary,
he was a visionary
though his stern parents thought he was a failure,
he painted over 800 paintings in his short career
and it is clear
that he suffered for his art
and gave from his heart
his mother disposed of his work in a crate
finding out–only too late
though she thought he was dim and full of whims
others a genius thought him
We walk out into the warm November day
drink coffee
And look at the colors play
Through city streets and historic sites
And think about Vincent’s short life
A few days later
We’re immersed again in art
Using a gift from friends–
sisters of my heart–
we ponder, peruse,
perhaps a snooze,
or eat and chat
perhaps a scream
(imagine that)
I think of light
And creativity
of sun and clouds
and starry nights
Ceiling of van Gogh Café
And so, to bed
pillows piled high
from a cat, a gentle sigh
the night here cloudy
perhaps we’ll sleep soundly.
but in our dreams
nothing is as it seems
in our dreams
we fly, starry skies
swirl and flow
on light beams
we ride, silver stardust flows
magic of the night
Immersed in art
through starry nights and clouded days
seeing magic, creativity,
imagination, a constant, that stays
We saw the movie Loving Vincent. Trailer here.
We visited Ground for Sculpture. I have many more photos that may appear at some point.
I missed a couple days of Eliot of Along the Interstice’s November Shadorma Challenge,
so I’ve put a couple into this week’s musings.
“For myself, I declare I don’t know anything about it. But the sight of the stars always makes me dream.”
Vincent van Gogh, letter to his brother Theo, July 1888
“I think about our ancestors. Thousands of years, wondering if they were alone in the universe. Finally discovering they weren’t. You can’t blame them for wanting to reach out, see how many other species were out there, asking the same questions.”
–Captain Kathryn Janeway, Star Trek Voyager, Episode, “Friendship One”
At night
ghosts sail to stars
dazzling the universe
with wild poetry,
that thing there—
see it?
the liquid blush of desire
Earth spins and orbits our Sun
but all is not right
(in day or night)
the heavens rage
the surface heaves
the forests burn
the oceans churn
(do you hear them sigh)
and creatures die
on the stars I make a wish
for planet, us, for birds and fish
and then under the glowing stream
I close my eyes and then I dream
I wake to see bright Venus,
high above
she sings of love
there in the eastern sky
she dances and she wonders why
(as do I, oh, as do I)
we are not swayed from the hate
and do not counter or negate
the dotard’s words of folly
but instead sink into a melancholy—
(as do I, oh, as do I)
under starlight’s beam
once again
I close my eyes and then I dream
We watch Star Trek Voyager
Earth’s greeting of friendship gone wrong
a civilization pushed headlong
into nuclear winter,
the next day—synchronicity
a radio story of the real Voyager
the golden record as it would sound to aliens
Simplicity? Specificity?
We want to reach out,
to know we’re not alone
the moon smiles and gleams
I close my eyes and then I dream
We have a holiday dinner
missing daughters, sister, and niece
still I present the soup and loaf
(a masterpiece!)
with apples, honey, and some wine
we drink and eat and we are fine
(we pour more wine)
talk of movies and van Gogh
(there’s a new movie out, you know)
wonder about Ben Franklin’s diet and life
then matter-of-factly my mother’s zinger
that he did not sleep alone
at ninety-five, she was so in the zone!
and with that, the laughter lingers
sweet
like the honeyed fingers
from the baklava and apple cake
she mangles the middle
and picks at the pieces
but sister laughter
follows after
and after
We drink more wine, again we’re fine
under moonlight sky and starry stream
I close my eyes and then I dream. . .
of the universe’s wild poetry
of singing stars and humming moons
of spirits soaring and swaying to the tunes
before dawn’s blush of desire
turns the sky to fire
I wake and look up to the sky
to see Venus shining bright
I gaze and wish
for us, for cats, and fish
for dogs, and horses, and for birds
(and yes, even for the dotard)
for the planet, earth, and trees
and for the seas
under Venus’s beaming gleam
I close my eyes and wish and dream
So, we watched Star Trek Voyager and saw an episode about the result of a probe that was sent out from Earth that was very similar to the real Voyager and its golden record. Then the next day, I heard this story on NPR’s Weekend Morning Edition and the Oracle gave me that poem. Synchronicity?
Some of you may know because I’ve ranted about it that I’ve been working on two reference books about rape. I am happy to report that both manuscripts have now been sent in. I also finished another project over the weekend, so I should now have time to answer e-mails and respond to comments and prompts. At least until, I receive copyedited manuscript (first one is coming next month).
Vincent van Gogh, “Sorrow,” 1882 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
Now years have passed, the pain is gone–
physical pain, the dreams remain,
demons, terror, always the same.
Family gone–denouement
of war, of destruction, of fright–
she mourns them still, alone at night.
For evil men, she was a pawn.
They took her youth, left no trace
in tattooed arm and withered face.
The past is gone, she won’t dwell on,
memories–peace comes, with a book,
a cat, some tea, a quiet nook
in which she sits, sometimes till dawn,
longing to die, willing to live,
she tries not to hate; she tries to forgive.
This week, Jane asked us to write about pain for her poetry challenge in a poem using the rhyme scheme: abb acc add aee, etc. I didn’t use the prompt words or the image she suggested. I think this Van Gogh drawing conveys the mood of the poem. The model was pregnant and abandoned by the father of the child. She was forced to prostitute herself to buy food. Van Gogh took her in as a model, paid her rent, and shared his bread with her. The Wikipedia page has more information.
Vincent van Gogh, “Poplars in Autumn,” [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
As Agata hurried down the dirt road, the autumn sun was already sinking lower in the sky. Sunlight streamed between the poplars lining either side of the path, casting shadows that lay over her small, determined figure like a shroud. It would be dark by the time she arrived at the meeting place. Past curfew. She shivered and wrapped her cloak tighter around her body. She wondered how the children would survive the winter, if she couldn’t get them out.
She had some money—and her body. She would bargain with both if necessary to buy enough food and the necessary papers for the children. She had given up her theater career for a life of religious contemplation, but now she contemplated whether life was a tragedy or a farce.
She left the path and walked into the woods. Feliks—she was certain that was not his real name—was there waiting. Silently, he took Agata’s money and handed over the papers, along with some potatoes. No bargaining.
“I can’t meet you again. It’s too dangerous,” he said to her. “Go quickly now.”
But it was already too late. Hearing men and dogs, Agata thrust the papers into a hole behind a giant poplar root, hoping Maria would find them there tomorrow. Seconds later, the soldiers’ flashlights illuminated her like an actress on a stage. She stared at their boots, then looked up at their faces and thought, “This may be my final performance.”
This story is in response to Jane Dougherty’s Writing Challenge. The prompt was Van Gogh’s painting above.
I thought the figure looked like a nun, and it made me think of two recent Polish movies I’ve seen. Ida, the Oscar-winning Best Foreign Film (2015) is about a young woman raised in a convent since WWII, who is about to take final vows. The Mother Superior tells her she must first meet her aunt. The two take a road trip, and Ida discovers her parents were Jewish.
The Innocents (2016) is about nuns in a Polish convent. It is December 1945. One nun leaves the convent to find a French doctor. It seems there are several pregnant nuns—the result of Soviet soldiers invading the convent and raping the women there. The doctor, Mathilde, and the sisters form a bond, despite their differences.
Vincent van Gogh. “Wheatfield With Crows,” [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
Long before the time of now, our ancestors came from the sky. Our legends say, we are made in their image. We have lost the technology of these forebears, the knowledge that let them travel from the stars. Why? No one knows. We argue about the details, calling to one another in debate, but it is clear we are like no others on this planet.
We sing the songs of our ancestors, and we’ve created new ones in their trilling, gurgling language. Our voices brighten the dawn and soften the evening darkness. We sing for love. We sing in warning.
There are beings who envy us. They use hot air and machines to emulate us. Clumsy things. But we do not need such devices. We are born with wings and feathers. Born to fly. Over time, we’ve developed into a varied species. Our feathers come in many shades like the colors of this planet, black, brown, white, grey, blue, red, green, yellow. We are the descendants of gods, strong and graceful.
We are sharp-eyed and observant, too, and so when I notice something below that breaks my reverie, I caw to my mate, “Do you see that human? He’s painting us. Perhaps we’ll be immortalized.” She caws back to me in laughter. We are through foraging here. We soar over the golden wheat fields of Arles, heading home.
This story is in response to Jane Dougherty’s Microfiction Challenge. One prompt was the Van Gogh painting above.
This story may or may not be related to my earlier story, “Shapes in the Mist.”
And this poem, “The Raven Flies.”
