I borrowed a handful of blue sky from my last lover and planted silver seeds in the womb of melancholia
I watered it with crystalline streams of rhymes and feed unalloyed metaphors of frore fantasm
I handpicked poignant poppies and doleful dandelions from the valley of utopian dreams and stitched an attire of metanoia
I burned the lamp of hope on frigus eventides, watching serein sunset from the magenta meadows
I watched snowflakes that buried the wheat fields in confetti of whipped cream and waited by the cypress for spring days
I saw the gold of sunshine rays effleurage the first sprouts on the forgiveness sowed land of eunoia
I watched the seeds that bought forth grain grow up, volumizing into the voids of silence and yielding thirty seven to infinite years of agony
I switched from the shades of cypresses moving on to inky blues of welkin on lonely nights, swirling through stars to gaze at the sprouts of euphoria
I witnessed the glow of yellow buds peeling off the beguiling blues and peeking out of melancholia to shine eternal hope upon humanity
I was one of the blessed lives in the universe to reap endless love from a begotten heir of past, the endless empyrean
I, a diaphanous nefeli, on brumous benevolence of azora, waltz whimsically in the wilderness of a Vangogh wheat field, sailing on tranquil ripples, landing on cypress peaks, reciting vagaries of a solivagant soul
I, a nefelibata, have birthed clouds of clinquant constellations to light eternities of stranded life, guiding them to the source of yellow hope
" There is no blue without yellow or orange" - Vincent Van Gogh
Euphoric Dysphoria ~
Ascending at last breath 3.7 decades into life Mayhaps in a realm, it screams wholesomeness Or one whole cyclone of persisting paranoia Leaving behind panacea of paintings to ponder on
If an artist can be anointed a gender, it'd be ' d r e a m e r ' If an artist can belong to a place, it'd be ' u t o p i a ' Thirst of a brimming river is unfathomable Likewise agony of an artist is unimaginable
He was a dreamer who manifested his dreams into a vision A visionary who gave colors to his visions of an utopia A utopian who immersed himself in the hues of euphoria A euphoric soul who lived in a trance and turbulence of dysphoria
Stamped as ' unlucky in love ', the scribblers tailing sensational secrets Oft failed the call of epiphany, he was unconditionally in love with nature Which in no way was ' u n r e q u i t e d ' even though He has a list of ' unrequited loves ' in his lone life in pursuit of art
He found art in assembly of random, extraordinary scent in ordinary scenes He sewed magic fantasies into mundane fabric His psyche drowning in violent graffiti of pain Somehow synergized into mesmerizing confetti of colors
He eternized both pain and pleasures, for "there's no blue without yellow or orange" Sorrows and sunflowers, lovers and laborers Settings of room to Starry Night, Cypresses to wheat fields Butterflies to moth, portraits to sceneries, and self-portraits
His sunflowers symbolize hope, as eternal as his embellished hues The way he smeared yellow on the walls within And smirked at the red gushing in his veins The way he sliced an ear high on hallucination And laughed at the severed limb wrapped in a letter
How can he be not human ? How can he be not normal ? Mayhaps he might be the only one who lived his life u n m a s k e d And that scared the masquerading masses to imprison him To set boundaries to his flights or bind chains weigh in his wings
Sirimiri of his hues sang poetries aloud Scent of his paints bloomed sunflowers in love Sight of his stars enchanted the infinities beyond Soul of his art showered spells on wandering minds
Flowerets flourishing even in afterlife is his art Stars shining even after shooting across the sky is his art Midnight swirling even in the daylight is his art Nature nourishing life even after the creator is his art
A whiff of hope to cease the bitter frostbite A dream of love to never cease the warm sunshine Is all he left the world to heal As it is who he is, nothing less, nothing more _________ A Note -
Vincent, If you find me lingering in the fumes of fantasies from above the clouds of dreams I hope you know how a life sans courage to attempt anything at all feels like And I'm not proud of it ~
#transform#hibernation#iconography#wod#pod /Quotations/ Disclaimer : I have cited quotations and dialogues in this series, without which this would be incomplete. I would say, I attempted an entangled collab/ Maybe I'll delete this series someday... (~_~;) Rest written rights reserved 10 May 2021 1.51 pm
[The end of Van Gogh series ,Thank you, those who read ! I don't know what I accomplished, but I feel satisfied ]
Vincent's Butterflies ~
Vincent found solace in the lap of nature. With his neon tinted vision, he found the thin blades of green grass as soft as a velvet veil to thorny thoughts. He found the branches of fir trees as comfortable as a cradle to his clammy mind. He found the endless wheat fields as serene as a prayer house to his ailing soul.
/ "painting promises color " , as soothing as music /
He transformed what soothed himself into art and what better cocoon to his caterpillar than the world of colors. So he immersed himself in those hues in hopes of metamorphosis to butterfly, as soothing to soul like music.
Hopeful hues in his Butterfly series evoked rays of faith reflected by bright rhythmic brush strokes. Fascinated with butterflies since an infant, he saw those fragile lives as a symbol of fervent hope.
Metaphors perched on the branches of chaos inside his head, screamed at him the innate potential of life for metamorphosis.
/ Unknown transformation of grubs into beetles Cocoons that transform caterpillars to butterflies Assuming existence of colors in another life-space Hopefully affirms the altered existence of painter-butterflies /
He painted twin butterflies with white delicate wings whispering wishes to green coated grass, delighted in the daydreams of a dainty day. / A symbol of 'freedom and foreboding '/
He also painted 'Butterflies and Poppies' with 'bright colored layers of oil on canvas that gave a textile-like feel'. How his hopelessly hopeful mind could differentiate colors and give them a characteristic of nature is extraordinary.
Even his blooms had a veil of gloom And his hope had an inevitable slope He roamed freely in the valleys of death Disappeared like a butterfly devoid of breath
/ He wondered about fallen angels of women " She is seeking, seeking, seeking -- does she herself know what? Might she be transformed one day like a grub into a butterfly?" /
Today, a dainty day in the month of May, 2021, I seek a shadow of hope in the wailing greenery and wilting sunflowers. I imagine a sea of poppies in the barren field across my balcony and wish for a monsoon that could fulfill my daydreams. I wonder whether such a monsoon will ever arrive and welcome a swarm of butterflies - a kaleidoscope of hope Yet the nature makes me ponder again of possible potentials of a drought land of my mind. Some of those summer showers surprised me with blossoms of gulmohar in the lone tree in my vicinity. Maybe some verses could transform me into a butterfly too. A poet can hope.
One such day in the month of May, 1889, Vincent spotted a rare nocturnal moth called death's head. The painting was titled 'Green Peacock Moth' but Vincent self-titled it as 'Deaths Head Moth'. Its linked wings were bleak black and grey splashes of murky cloud-like shape with white tinges and vague shades of olive green. The vivid colors and the intensity of passion is obviously visible from the enlarged size of the moth and the plants in the backdrop. The 'lords-and-ladies' in the background symbolize copulation of man and woman. A cluster of bright red cherries are characteristic of female flower which remain when leaves start withering in Autumn. Perhaps these poisonous berries symbolizes the existence of evil in the world, the blooms the attraction of human nature and the moth a symbol of looming death. Yet its the depiction of a delicate life, a transformed life, a FULFILLED Life.
/ Did those butterflies inspire 'a troubled soul to survive' Or did the emperor moth lure in his soul like a siren /
He was a pupa of painter A chrysalis of creativity A butterfly of art/artist And a moth of insanity
He was that 'Existential Butterfly', a caterpillar that hibernate in the cocoon of colors, only to wake up as a ' Lost Butterfly'
[Dear Vincent, I apologize for every thing I spilled here, I've been sinking into your art, your life and your pain, idk why ]
Vincent's Starry Night ~
Vincent's life was empty for a passerby. Yet it was filled up to the brim with multitudes of visions and hues of daydreams. No mortal could trespass the brimming life within his soul. And he poured it wholeheartedly to the ever-welcoming canvases.
Hurt overshadowed every hail. Pain veiled every pleasure and sorrow reigned over his solitude.Despite pessimistic diagnosis, he always bounced back to his art. Perhaps that was his only optimistic stroke in life's canvas.
I wonder what caught his mind gazing at the outside world through the barred windows of his cell. He said he " had a new study of a starry sky ". And I guess only blue could do justice to his emotional turbulence. Those twirls his paint brush stroked was the entangled threads of his life. Swirls swiveling between life and death, pessimistic blues and optimistic yellows, persistent dreams and stubborn depression, those strokes were resultant force of the tango with his variant turmoil.
The enormous star prior to the dawn-break of the countryside was a vision that anchored his hazy mind. Cobalt blue curls marrying zinc yellow pigments created the serene sky in starry night.Those funereal cypresses, olive trees and mighty mountains acted as his catalysts. The village a reminiscence of his life and the sky a depiction of the real night sky with a play of contrasting colors and the presence of the cresent moon with a heavenly halo and northern lights give an ethereal treat to artistic minds, a vision unlike no other.
He failed to recognize the magical spell sprinkled all over the oil painted canvas, as he regarded it yet another of his failure, a moment of weakness where he allowed himself to go /"astray, reaching for the stars that are too big - another failure "/ Perhaps its the world around him that veiled the true colors of his own art from his eyes. The illusion of death and afterlife is also entwined in his brush strokes. / " we take death to reach a star " / And maybe those yellow tinges affirm his hopes of finding an abode elsewhere or even in this very earth itself. / " Hope is in the stars " /
It is that very hope he meant that I find myself holding onto in the silence of many starry nights. That hope blooms in the intervals between consciousness and unconsciousness. That hope seeks a solemn soul with senile vision to carry on his missions.
His life was a Pilgrimage of Art Starry Night, an Illusionary Heart Swirls of inky infinity redundant To denote melancholia abundant For infinity was a fraction of consciousness And a forever of unconsciousness • • • I wonder who was a mother to him, all his life ? Was it nature which pulled him with a gravity to his sanity ? Was it those colors which sprayed his hollow life with blues and greys ? Was it art that filled his lungs along with scarce breath and sadistic smoke ? Was it those delusional dreams that was a hiraeth to his haunted self ? Was it those psychedelic elipses intermittently visiting his troubled psyche ? Was it the yellow hues that painted his self inside out ? Was it the starry nights of overwhelming solitude ? Was it the magical synergy of his solemn hands ? Was it the frozen time to the warmth of life or the frozen hearts who alienated his fiery soul ? • • • Maybe his whole life, he was in hibernation - breathing between ereely silent walls, clutching paintbrushes for life, often eating bread and coffee alone, even the yellow paint to feel some bliss, inhaling tobacco in hopes of relief, drinking away untold pain, smoking and coughing vapours of murky clouds, intermittent episodes of hallucinations, successful attempts of self harming, including self-mutilation and at last his suicidal act, which culminated in death a while later - to finally wake up to death. / Death is not the opposite of life Rather its a part of life, its purpose /
Or was the entire world in hibernation to this man's whole existence ? To His ART ?
Which spoke volumes about abundant pain synergized to redolent art. Was he aware of the heights his delirium took him to ? Or was he a nomadic bird flying with severed wings of sewed dreams towards an illusionary empyrean ?
/ Who took his own life in the " vast fields of wheat under turbulent skies " that represented his "sadness and extreme loneliness" /
Who succumbed to the everlasting sadness, without any remorse ? Who found solace in his own hands that held a weapon instead of the familiar paintbrush ?
/ Who was called a "le fou roux" (the redheaded madman) A misunderstood genius in whom insanity and creativity converge /
Did he wake up from his hibernation from a hallucinatory hell to a healing heaven ? Or is he drowning in the clouds above, swimming in pain and paddling tears of treasure ? Is he up there painting the heavens in holistic hues ? Or did his existence dissipate into a hollow world of spiraling spells ? What if he is a resident of the imaginary township with the twirling cypress towers and starry swirls overlapping the inky night ?
/ "canvases will tell you what I cannot say in words " /
While my wet ink dries my tears Staring at his soul that disappear I couldn't say goodbye to a soul So lost yet found elsewhere toil And I unearth more of his mysteries To sew more metaphors in my verses
/ "that — ... that's... the flower’. You know that Jeannin has the peony, Quost has the hollyhock, but I have the sunflower, in a way."/
Vincent woke ahead of the sun that day. His solemn resolve to capture the early morning in all its glory. Something has begun shifting inside him since he shifted to The Yellow House. He listened to the silent plea of the unfurnished rooms for adornments. Which he decided he could transform to a gallery to display his works. Among the series of his paintings, all for embellishing his artistic abode, was this special one, 'Still Life : Vase with Twelve Sunflowers'
/ 'Nothing but large sunflowers" , he had said /
Sunflower - The flower that follows the trail of the sun. An ardent devotee of the source of light. A lover basking in the ever-shining warmth, blooming to witness the very sunbeams of life. They evoked intense passion in him to express it in varied shades of light on canvas. It was also a symbol of friendship and gratitude to him. Declaring himself that his paintings could express better than his words could ever convey.
I imagine him walking briskly on a chilly morning to the valleys and wheat fields, landscapes of his Inspiration, allowing himself to amaze at the dawn-break and admire the blossoming sunflowers awoken to welcome the sun. One would think he might have carefully selected blossoms of perfect proportions in full bloom. But that's not him. He was a worshipper of natural shades, earthly tones, a free mind, without clutches of measurements and rules confining his artistic as well as personal freedom. Pondering over the benevolent nature and the nature of HIM, I picture him lazily caressing the blossoms and plucking those which spoke to him. Full bloom sunflowers that spread love and light in all vigour, those shy blooms, slightly stooping with a delicate yet dainty aura, stubborn blooms of thickly layered petals, proudly erect, late blooms with a lazy curve in petals, brooding with a tinge of melancholy, buds that aren't ready for the enlightened awakening yet as well as the withering dying bygone blossoms with wilted petals that have loved and lost, but LOVED nevertheless.
/ His 'purposeful' canvas was to be adorned in the richness of Yellow within moments /
Yellow, the most meaningful color to him. He firmly believed it symbolizes emotional truth. A symbol of sunlight, life and God - all which he pursues to explore and indulge in. The wooden canvas was impatient and he was a man with a mission. He arranged them in a vase in greater profusion. His paintbrush immersed in hues of yellows, Strokes bold, curving and colorful. Those bold strokes evoked the passion of the blossoms and strips on canvas and curves of petals spoke a language of their own. In addition to that, the thick layered oil strokes enhanced the realism of it, evoking ' texture of the seed-heads'. The expressionism of his brush strokes was unparalleled.
/" I'm painting with the gusto of a Marseillais eating bouillabaisse, which won't surprise you when it's a question of painting large sunflowers ... If I carry out this plan there'll be a dozen or so panels. The whole thing will therefore be a symphony in blue and yellow. I work on it all these mornings, from sunrise. Because the flowers wilt quickly and it's a matter of doing the whole thing in one go." /
For some it would simply mean 'a bouquet of Sunflowers in a vase'. But it was not just the painter's art but the person's soul. His exploration with the bright yellow hues could be unintentional escapades from the ever blooming melancholia in his mind. His canvas, his colors and his textures - his ART was all what grounded his soul to the earth as a tether. He knew the inevitable consequences of delirious dances he often loses himself in, just as well as he knew those flowers will wilt within no time. The symphony he orchestrated with the hues of synergy, was destined to play on forever, even if he himself couldn't bask in the afterglow of his artistic bliss.
He left swirls of hues and sunsets to mourn He left pieces of his soul in silken strokes He said, " The sadness will last forever" He also said, " The sunflower is mine"