Category Archives: Poetry

In the eyes of Me.

portrait of Vincent Van Gogh

 

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Self-Portrait of Vincent Van Gogh

A man without an ear had no friends

To show him the face of compassion

To lend him an ear to listen always

To the cries of a soul grim and ashen

Lost in the gallery of a dark house

Where nature oppressed ruled the mind

And commended it to suffer with the body. 

The Studio of the South in tatters

assailed a reservoir of dreams;

The Southern Sun of Arles in shreds

speared his soul with a shout of taunts

And made his heart sink in the abyss

Till it burst with an outcry evermore

Of the man with the unseen voices

That grew loud and grew louder

As he was estranged from himself

And left the world with a thunder

Of fire, a fire of freedom from 

The frights of the broken soul. 

Thereby hangs a tale of a painter

Breathed with poetic madness of arts. 

P.S.: I have recently come across an article about the nature of Vincent Van Gogh’s mental illness that eventually resulted in his suicide in May 1889 with a pistol that punctured his heart in Saint-Paul-de-Mausole asylum in Sant Remy, France.

It is said that Gogh had shown symptoms of disturbed mental states since he was 17 years old when his parents tried to get him committed. He was later seen eating coals while painting and told of hearing voices and seeing hallucinations. As a matter of fact, Gogh was from a family with a history of mental illness: his maternal aunt was epileptic, and two of his siblings died in asylums and two others by suicide. Surely, this doesn’t aver that mental illness is hereditary and therefore brings grist to the mill of eugenists.

In my opinion, it seems more likely that Gogh’s tragic life story comes from a combination of Gogh’s disappointment with the failed reception of his works and frustration with his ability to deal with the existential reality interacting with the unfavorable circumstances surrounding his struggles to mark his existence through a medium of art, which deserves of recognition for its beauty of his highly innate artistic sensibilities that glow in the dark night of the soul. To me, whether Gogh was clinically insane is to miss the gift of the artist to humankind that always thrives in the beauty of arts. 

Afternoon lark

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The sky’s blue and endless

The sun’s high and bright

The hill’s green and gorgeous

The field’s vast and earthlight

The bird’s happy and twittery

My spirit’s pretty and sassy

In a scene of noonday play. 

P.S; I was reading a book this afternoon and heard a bird singing from the bough of a tree outside the window; it was very pleasing and made my spirit flit in a mind’s garden. It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon, which resulted in this improvisational little poem. 

on the labyrinth

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The labyrinth has two natures: Beauty and Chaos

Concealed in its untrodden paths of dazzling mysteries:

Light and dark, birth and death, mastery and terror

All curled in wreaths of coiled bewilderment in alterations

Encircled in the visceral entrails of  great serpentine

Paths that allure you with a riveting promise of delights

From erotic games of licentious pursuits of pleasure hunts.

Lo! Somewhere in the corners of paths hides a blue marble

That promises you magical power of all that you want to be

Immersed in the deepest bottom of your secret bleeding heart

Wrapped up in the divine power of the magical beauty, 

Which is the messier, the prettier, the madder, the better. 

 

P.S.: The inspiration for this poem comes from the Greek mythology of the Labyrinth. The story, pattern, and design fascinate me and evoke a wide arc of thousands of imaginations. Riveting. 

poesie #

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When the night gently descends upon the day on the earth’s bed

And he silences her secretly with a force of darkness

Whispering softly in delirium, murmuring faintly in fever

blinding her with an extraordinary frisson of ecstatic fear

the spirts of tragic heroines of love – Dido and Ariadne-

run to the top of the hill where the sky lies above the earth

and lament their earthly journeys that ended in love alone

as Hounds of Love howl beside the beautiful losers in love

till the lovers’ tryst ends in a mist of passion and intoxication.

 

P.S.: I am always inclined to the stories of beautiful losers whose loves for their figures of the affairs of the hearts are not returned because there’s something tragically beautiful in them. Dido, the beautiful queen of Carthago, was cruelly forsaken by trojan refuge and founder of Rome Aeneas and chose to end her own life thereafter. Ariadne was a Cretan princess who helped Athenian prince Theseus to kill the Minotaur and to bring out the Athenian youths from the labyrinth with her inscrutable ball of threads as a guide to a route out. But Ariadne was also later deserted by Theseus and let alone on an island and forced to marry Dionysus, the god of wine. Hence this poem about those who are unlucky in the affairs of the hearts. 

 

#ShakespeareSunday

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“My gracious silence, hail!… Ah, my dear, Such eyes the widows in Corioli wear, And mothers that lack sons.” (‘The Tragedy of Coriolanus’, A2 S1). “And all my mother came into my eyes, gave me up to tears.” (‘Henry V’, A4 S6). Thereafter, “my thoughts were like unbridled children, grown too headstrong for their mother.” (‘The History of Troilus and Cressida’, A3 S2)

 

P.S.: This week’s theme is “Mothers and Children”, and the above is what I have found to be fit for the subject. In order to incorporate the quotations into one coherent paragraph of a drama, I have also slightly adapted the original texts to create a smooth flow of the narrative.