Brianland

Visiting . Vincent

.

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I got this invitation

To take a crazy trip down south

From a blazing young artist

Dripping colors from his mouth.

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So I got myself a ticket

On the Starry Night Express

Heading out of Holland

To the province of Excess.

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I’d never met the man

Who turned the Seine to yellow,

But he seemed like such a happy cat,

I had to meet this fellow.

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So I bought some wine in Arles,

And went looking for his house,

Knowing like I know artists,

He was probably a souse.

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I wandered past the bridges,

And the boats upon the shore,

Then to his yellow house did I

Come rapping on his door.

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“Oh Vincent, my good fellow,”

I called out, halfway nervous,

“I’ve come from Holland, I’ve got some wine,

My friend, I’m at your service.”

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Creaking up his tiny stairs,

The walls were streaked with paint,

All was quiet, holy, skill,

Like the cloister of a saint.

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With my heart a’clippin’ faster

Than the tracks of that Starry train,

I pushed his door and stepped beyond

The threshold of the sane.

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Upon his walls were sunflowers

Twisted and blazing yellow,

Not one I tell you, but rows of them,

In a most glorious welcoming “Hello.”

.

I suddenly knew him so much more,

His art was so alive,

I thought he was in the room with me,

And it took minutes to derive,

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It was but his bed, his smock, his hat,

That made me feel his presence,

That, and the tingling joyous buzz

Of his dripping oil presents.

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Following a hunch,

I went to the Night Cafe,

Even though it was technically,

The middle of the day.

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I ordered up some absinthe,

And took a look around,

But no where in this swirling bar

Was my Vincent to be found.

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Then from a table against a wall

The woman of the house looked up,

“Madame Ginoux,” she said,

As she offered me a cup.

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In broken French I asked her

If she knew my painter friend,

She smiled a twinkle, said “Let me tell you,”

Then I thought it’d never end . . .

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The tales she spun of nights he’d spent

Arguing in a rage,

Ranting loudly, pounding tables,

But with the wisdom of a sage.

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“Roulin, come join us,” she suddenly called

To a portly passing postman,

Approaching came a bearded gent,

Much kindlier than most men.

.

“Bonjour!” he boomed,

Sticking out his hand,

As Madame Ginoux described my plight,

I was blessed in Vincentland.

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He smiled as I explained

Why I’d come this far,

And what it was about Vincent’s art,

In the way he caught a star.

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Assured that I was true of heart

Roulin released the news,

He’d seen him on the road today,

Armed with easels and his muse.

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Wandering to’rd the wheatfields,

Roulin had seen him go,

“It’s his latest love, those glowing fields

That God Himself did sow.”

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Honored with this sacred tip,

I followed the Golden Path,

It felt like I’d been baptized

In a champion’s Champaign bath.

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Past cypress trees and orchards,

I wandered sun-drenched lanes,

Yielding power with each new step,

The Gods’ hands upon the reigns.

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The wheatfields blew like ocean waves,

Then I spotted something bobbing,

An easel’s peak, like a sail,

Of a tiny ship a’lobbing.

.

My heart was pounding, I took a step

Into Vincent’s sacred earth,

It came alive, my God I swear,

Just broaching his flaming hearth.

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There was Vincent! Brush in hand!

Raging against the night,

There was Vincent fighting off

The dying of the light.

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Palette weaving, body soaring,

I felt myself in air,

Vincent swirling, never knowing,

That I was even there.

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But the sun was growing ever larger

Engulfing the fading sky,

Into a giant wash of color

I felt my body fly.

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I lost my mind, lost regret,

Like Icarus I soared,

Wings be-damned, with Vincent’s heart,

Through the sky I roared,

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Into a world he knew so well,

His beaming light a’glow,

All the artists lived up here,

Hey, there’s Michelangelo!

.

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Through purples and yellows and orange and green,

Heaven’s alive in you know what I mean.

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It’s there on the wall, it’s in the “seeing,”

It’s in the eyes of every being.

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And then I fell into a field — and Vincent now was gone,

But I never did come back from that trip that I was on.

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Through purples and yellows and orange and green,

Through Vincent’s eyes I’ve seen what he’s seen.

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Through exploding yellow and cascading light,

In Vincent’s world I’ve lived my life.

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Here’s a piece about the excellent Loving Vincent movie.

Here’s a real-life Adventure Poem about the Dalai Lama in Central Park.

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by Brian Hassett  —  karmacoupon@gmail.com   —  BrianHassett.com

Or here’s my Facebook account if you wanna follow things there —

https://www.facebook.com/Brian.Hassett.Canada