All delirious and bitter, whispers in blue-shadow light— “needs must,” she says, the TV on, urging their mad dreams of what if—
But after, when the lathered red lust is over, and death chants crushed, who recalls us? Through mist, I watch the moon—sleep, sing, shine. And as the fiddler sprays a thousand diamonds into the sky they soar, time-aching with echoed whys.
My poem from the Magnetic Poetry Oracle. This time, she really gave me everything (except echo). She obviously knows what’s going on in the world.
“For my part I know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of the stars makes me dream.” –Vincent van Gogh to his brother Theo, 1888
In wavy lines and shimmering spots, his knotted thoughts, unspooled
the counted crows, a postman, impasto flowers’ golden glow–
but most of all the stars, not stilled, the night a colored motion sea–
ripples of what he saw–and dreams of what might be
A quadrille for dVerse, where Mish asked us to use the word “knot.” I read this article today about how after van Gogh’s death, the sale of his paintings—then valuable—paid for his sister Willemien’s care in a mental asylum. I suppose it helped her, but I also felt it was so tragic that she spent decades—almost forty years–there.
This is for dVerse,where De asked us to use the word fill in a quadrille, a poem of exactly 44 words. My first lines came from Jane wondering a few days ago what it would be like to see the stars during the day. I suspect Vincent could hear their songs.