van Gogh on Fire
One may have a blazing hearth in one’s soul and yet no one
ever came to sit by it. –Vincent van Gogh
No warmth in London, 1873. Unrequited love
for the landlady’s daughter spins genius into a melancholy orbit.
Cool to the pastor’s son, God dismisses his supplicant.
Even faithful Theo solicits less passion, more Parisian chic.
On canvas, hooded sapphires stare down indifference. Nitro
calm evolves to Writhing Roots and
bull’s eye corona stars.
Two pillows on a narrow bed, two hopeful chairs wait
for Gauguin in The Artist’s Bedroom.
Reunion comes cobalt cold.
Broken tree trunks and ominous crows draw down the end.
Vincent sold one painting.
Today we feel his flame in olive groves and russet wheat fields;
young girls sleep beneath Starry Night comforters, and lonely
artists are warmed by his Promethean gifts.
God, can you spare some love?
