innocent bowl of fruit
on a wooden table
beside the empty
bottles
of
wine.
open window
looking out
onto
the arles landscape,
mirror on the wall
smashed
in
pieces
bloody washstand
with
a dirty wash cloth,
torment
filling the basin.
easel
standing alone,
razor
dripping
a beautiful red
on
the palette.
seurat
whispers to
gauguin,
'true genius lives herein! '
pisarro
nods
in
agreement,
adding
'but, how it soon bleeds out'
from a distant field
of sunflowers
comes the unending
crazed screams
of a madman
on the loose
with
nothing
left
to
paint.
(9-07-2015)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem