His first grey offerings were spare.
Grim peasant scenes of tables bare,
save plump potatoes, here and there,
Why should we care, why should we care?
*
His brother, Theo, told him, “no,
don’t denigrate poor people so.
We know their lives are full of woe,
just let them go, just let them go.”
*
“To be an artist catching eyes
your canvas must excite, surprise,
bypassing truth, creating lies,
with vivid dyes, with vivid dyes.”
*
In Paris, neath its smoky pall,
Vincent’s hopes began to fall.
That didn’t meet his needs at all,
Provence would call. Provence would call.
*
Enthused by Midi’s dazzling light
his demons did (at first) take flight.
His art became his heart’s delight
like Starry Night, like Starry Night.
*
That Nature all around him lay
inspired van Gogh each sunkissed day.
He painted cornfields, stacks of hay,
It felt like play; it felt like play.
*
Irises, blue; sunflowers, too,
thrusting from vases, vibrant hue.
He saw their beauty shining through.
His eye was true, his eye was true.
*
From Arles he thought he’d never roam,
its absinthe bars, its grassy loam.
The Yellow House became his home.
His mouth would foam; his mouth would foam.
*
Yes, sadly, madness came along,
His mental health was far from strong.
To lose his mind would not take long,
it all went wrong; it all went wrong.
*
Paul Gauguin came, a friend and peer,
but soon he changed the atmosphere.
Vincent, in some delusion’s fear,
Chopped off an ear; chopped off an ear.
*
He spent some time in Saint-Remy
responding well to therapy.
Upon release he’d leave Midi.
Where would he flee? Where would he flee?
*
To Paris he returned again,
he’d seek redemption by the Seine.
Depressed, his life could not sustain.
He died in pain. He died in pain.
*
His legacy, beyond compare,
entrances all who stand and stare.
To change the world of Art, he’d dare.
A talent rare. A talent rare.
| 
