the moment she bent
one fluid motion
for the thin bough
both hands grasping
bare suggestion
could he have meant it
for the bending trees
Bonnie Marshall
Artist: Vincent van Gogh
I write a poem before I search for illustration. The black chalk drawing by Vincent van Gogh, “Woman Picking up a Stick in Front of Trees, 1890,” is an exception.
love is shade movable as shadow;
it is scintillant brightness;
it cannot be defined as if it were
a color described to someone blind
as orange…azure…emerald… a
dainty pink…a blood deep red
its thinking etches or erases like
lace edged sea foam on a beach
it is invisible as gravity…sensed
like space between tick…tock
no spell is implicit in its sounding
for its spelling is not sacrosanct…
it may as well be evol…olev…velo
enough…for we think of it as warm
or chill or thrill or pain or ecstasy…as
literal as pinch…sustaining as if breath
oh, Dear Reader…let’s go for distract…
pretend it’s a rainy day…or blazing hot
or something’s wrong with our setting
and we can’t change the world…at least
not these very moments
now consider the reward of thinking
boustrophedon…come on…stay with
me on this one, for it’s a marvel, and
will prove advantage in a curious life
once you get the knack of it…like
computer glasses…or tapping apps
there…you just “boused”…might
tease your eyes a bit at first until you
find the motion knack of it…the plow
of it, like oxen forward backward on
a field, the way some Greeks…some
Romans incised glyphs into their clay
use it now…you’re ready… you…
could try it with van Gogh…his great
“Rain – Auvers”…1890…one from
his final works
start top left…scan seeing thinking
left to right and right to left across
its levels blue to gold to blue…stop
now and then to ponder what he shows
for it will wonder you
and then…there is…his rain
Bonnie Marshall
Painting by Vincent van Gogh
“Rain – Auvers” (1890)
Michelangelo struck marble compulsively
the way nectar bees in his wild garden
probed flower hearts…to dart and drive,
to draw life force from corporeality
be it clover or Carrara, they sweet sweat
penetrated to quartz dust pollen revelry.
I thought this thought in Italy…one day
as I hovered ‘round and ‘round and ‘round
his unfinished statue…a mighty Captive imprisoned in unyielding custody of stone
both hands and feet gaoled in the column
where his body twisted toward free will.
And from that day in Italy…surrounded by
his finished polished blessed Sistine and his
decisive David…this is a work of art I savor
that I captured then.. a rich raw gold
honey life force in my comb of memory.
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