April Free Choice
We share a soul,
Van Gogh and I.
An ekphrastic soul,
the soul of an artist,
for it is through our art
–a man and his watercolours,
a girl and her poetry–
that we imitate sadness.
And
La tristesse durera toujours–
the sadness will last forever–
will it not,
my dear, Van Gogh?
This was your mantra:
a one-eared-symphony
ruminating across the decayed
e x p a n s e
of frayed violin chords
and rotting piano keys.
This is your wisdom:
a teaching you
impart on to me
during the loneliest moments
between dusk and dawn.
“The sadness will last forever,”
you muse.
I lie across a
hollow mattress,
entangled in the bedsheets
whose coldness–
cruel and persistent–
is so acute,
it seeps into my marrow.
Indeed,
this is the type of sorrow one feels
e v e r y w h e r e;
it dwells in all the essential parts of me,
the parts that my very existence depends upon.
Bones:
(disintegrating into dust).
Bloodstream:
(razor caresses vein.)
Flesh:
(torn and irreparable.)
Mind:
(in limbo,
its desire residing somewhere
between life and death.)
Soul:
(The heart’s kindling,
highly flammable.)
Heart:
(Broken.)
My hand wrapped round’
the neck of a wine bottle
and my eyes surging with tears,
I stare up at the ceiling,
where swirls of moonbeam
waltz about in a delirious romp.
But
these dancing figures,
these cacophonic
tendrils of light,
do not come from the heavens;
they descend from the spirit
of the Great Painter himself–
they are phantoms
of The Starry Night.
And when they reach out
to touch me,
my skin erupts
into a kaleidoscope
of acrylic blues and
buttery yellows
thick enough to drown in.
This is how I am baptized–
in the colours
of his melancholia.
You,
Van Gogh,
have given me a galaxy
(yes,
these constellations
belong to me now).
I swallow the stars
that freckle my body
like they are pills because,
as you have also taught me,
the presence of the stars
is irrevocably tethered
to the presence of the darkness.
And Perhaps I am
tired
of this darkness.
Perhaps this sadness
doesn’t have to last forever,
after all.
But–“No!”
you scream
(blood-curdling,
ear piercing.)
“The Sadness will last forever,”
but the stars
must also live on.
This is{y}our legacy.
This is {y}our reincarnation.”
“I don’t know how,”
I cry out
to the blues and the yellows,
the moonbeams and the starlight.
“Poetry,”
you declare.
“That stars shall surely
live on through your
Poetry.
You mustn’t forget this;
art has always had a way
of imitating sadness.
And this sadness shall–
must—
last forever.”
~
I can’t decide if I love this poem or if I hate it.
I certainly didn’t feel a “sparkle”, a rush I typically experience when I’ve finished writing something I’m proud of. But this time around, my heart did not beat with triumph, my eyes did not convey the slightest glitter of profundity, and I certainly did not smile–a goofy grin, one that is often accompanied by an ecstatic giggle.
Of course, there was no giggling either.
“Art Imitates Sadness” doesn’t feel perfect, is what I’m trying to say. And when something doesn’t feel perfect, I am left to brood under the weight of my dissatisfaction. This proves especially true when it comes to poetry because it’s supposed to be the thing I do best. And I think a lot of people just naturally expect my writing to be great, you know? But the pressure can be too much to bear sometimes. Perhaps that is why I am so uncomfortable when anyone compliments me. Because, when they compliment me, I can’t help but feel like they have set a standard in which every new poem I write must either equate or surpass the greatness of the ones the came before it.
Now, that being said, I wonder if this really does suck, or if I am just being unreasonably hard on myself. My logic tells me that “Art Imitates Sadness” is everything it should be–creative in its subject matter, picturesque in its imagery, and unique in its style. But my emotion–my non-existent self-esteem and my tendency to catastrophize–dictates that I am a failure. Ironically enough, it is quite probable that this can be credited to my own sadness. Now, if you are an avid reader of my work, I am sure you are thinking, “But isn’t she always sad anyway?”
The answer to this question is a resolute “yes.” But the problem is that, lately, I’ve been sadder than usual. And when I am sad–and I mean really sad– I am ruthlessly critical of myself. This being recognized, regardless of whether or not I love or hate this piece– regardless of whether or not you love or hate this piece–I think that my writing it was absolutely necessary.
Allow me to explain:
Do you know when you’re reading a book and you come across a new vocabulary word? And, at first, you really don’t think much of it in a, “Yeah it’s a cool word and everything, but it’s just a word“ kinda way? But then, a few days later, your teacher uses that same word in class as part of their lesson plan. Or maybe you hear it on the television or on the radio. Or perhaps you even happen upon it in the newspaper or in another work of literature.
Well, regardless of how this word chooses to present itself, it begins to appear everywhere. It makes you wonder if its reoccurrence has anything to do with some sort of divine intervention, almost as if the universe wants you–needs you–to be aware of its existence.
For me, my “word” was Vincent Van Gogh. It started with a quote of his–“The sadness will last forever”–which I had spontaneously recalled one Sunday afternoon and could not stop thinking about. It took me a while to place the author, though I knew it sounded familiar. Eventually, a curious google search assisted me in putting two and two together. At this point, I had begun considering the prospect of writing a piece about Van Gogh.
Then, Claire Beany, a good friend of mine and an FFCA alumni, visited our class where she shared with us her own ekphrasis of Van Gogh’s Starry Night. I marvelled at the serendipity of her visit, and, suddenly, the prospect of writing a poem inspired by Van Gogh was no longer a prospect–it was an absolute.
Perhaps “Art Imitates Sadness” isn’t amazing, though there is also a chance that it could be. I guess only you, readers, can be the judge of that now. But this poem is an authentic musing, one that even fate–the stars themselves–seemed to be in favour of. I can only hope it was able to prompt some sort of enjoyment on your part. And I hope that one day, I will be able to enjoy it too.
–The Girl With The Purple Soul
(and the stars in her eyes)
P.S. Think Van Gogh was ever dissatisfied with his art? Feel free to comment your response.
But it is amazing! Thank you for being one of my favourite writers! Inspired!
Thanks bunches, Hunni–love you! I always fan girl when I see a comment from you, lol. <3