Tag Archives: art

Vincent van Gogh

There an arthritic bullet lay, was stopped,

By bone, and blood encrusted wounds unchecked.

He stumbled, staggered back, was stamm’ring, wrecked,

Lurched without want, as though by drink was hopped


In fields where rushes crushed beneath him, cropped

And ripe, but brown, produced a dead effect.

His room, with canvas, colours-clothed, bedecked,

From pots of inks and tinctures, stoppers popped.


The drunkard drained of dignity, and painted

Portent of peril, spiralled into madness

Flowering, blooming in his starry eyes.


Clutching colour, face and field, but tainted:

Strains of a plague, a harsh and harried sadness

Blossoming black, ingrained, and Vincent dies.


On the Failure of Florentine and Venetian Humanism

The city, where the poor will live beside the rich,

The filth beside the scum. The poor prostrate themselves

Before the rich, as though five hundred years or more

Of human pride and courage went to waste, as though

Those universal men threw off the chains of God

And rubbed their wrists, and rubbed their thumbs and fingertips

As quickly, throwing off the chains of hands, the hands

Of feebly communistic poor, of wasted men.

The waste, as though the mighty marble David’s member

Was just a bit too small.