Gert Strydom

Gold Star - 30,073 Points (03 April 1964 / Johannesburg, South Africa)

Paintings And Painters That Come Alive To Me - Poem by Gert Strydom


As if he could break time into pieces
Salvador Dali did bend watches
where one hangs over a branch and another
is over a bodily thing and its as if time jumps back
while everything gleams very bright
with the open landscape in the background
and only a branch and a cupboard in foreground
so as if the white sun is climbing golden over it
and he did wonder what Gala would think
did forget for moments about the painting
but that energy did have its own power,
he poured a glass of wine to have with his cheese and bread,
did wonder if she knows of his love?
And he did put his hat on his head.


He did put his hat on his head,
saw the light of God falling through the window
and it was more golden in colour than just white
where he was exhibiting light and shadows,
and from it depth did just appear by itself
and the face was glowing almost alive
and was totally free against the black background
while he was caught, seriously riveted
by the art coming from his fingers
and he did wonder if God at the creation
did stand back from His great works, was astounded
with the earthly dome
and before the master gleams an image that cannot perish
while he paints with opaque paint.


He paints with opaque paint
is busy with a water-colour
where he does sit in the sun at the back of the yard
and tell me about the course of events.
To my astonishment it’s a landscape
of a misty dark wood
where a couple are wandering
with a small road that meanders in its simplicity
Those later runs into gigantic trees
with bright flowers still fresh
with drops of dew and big splashes of sunshine
that burst hot through at some places
with drops hanging on the trees on the bright day;
while the whole world is laughing at him.


While the whole world is laughing at him
its as if God Himself is taking his hand
in every line, every colour that splashes down
while everybody does not care about his art,
not even the great beauty of the starry night
and when he paints sunflowers his tears are flowing
when voices, people do stain his life
and he paints the most beautiful things,
perfect picture upon perfect picture
and its as if he is expecting nothing that is good,
the darkness grows in his soul while he dresses,
when he chops off his ear, does disfigure his face
and tired he stands alone against a force majeure
when my eyes do enter that sombre room.


When my eyes do enter that sombre room
it feels as if I was walking on the cool wooden floor,
and about this painting he maybe is shy
as if it is personal when I walk closer.
The small table next to the bed is loaded
with painted clay pots, a bottle of wine and a glass,
paintings hang on the walls almost up to the ceiling
while light comes in through the yellow curtains
that brings warmth to the earthly room,
the purple walls do stand out
along with the bright red blanket of the small bed
and I cannot understand any gloominess
while I see him stuck in his thoughts in a wheat acre
with the hot sun burning without any mercy.


With the hot sun burning without any mercy,
he wears a straw hat to block the bright rays,
at times does shade his eyes with his big hand
and paints with masterly form and balance.
It is God’s wheat acres and cypress trees
that he becomes aware of there in front of the mountain,
monsters that suddenly appear like in dreams
do come as great storm clouds in the sky
with two bushes and some tress half blown to a side
the wheat acre is so yellow, the seed so ripe
that in his fingers he can turn the grains of wheat out
and against the bright light he has to close his eyes
while the wind blows where he is painting and at times it does annoy him
and alone I see a figure standing, minutely small.


Alone I see a figure standing, minutely small
against the catastrophic evil that waits like a lightening bolt
that is ready to bash down, but is still hidden
while a unearthly texture or something is breathing in your neck
and its as if total destruction is waiting,
is focused on everything living,
is hidden in a somewhat evil power
that wants to strike as a kind of judgement
in that forbidding environment,
as if the mountain is going to exploded in mere moments,
in lava or with a earthquake
will bring everything back to pieces of dust
and there is evil jumping out of the painting
as if he could break time into pieces

[The paintings: I: “The Persistence of Memory” by Salvidor Dali, II: Ectched Self-portrait of Rembrandt with his hat on by Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Rijn, V: “Vincent’s Room” by Vincent Willem Van Gogh. VI: “Wheat Fields and Cypress Trees” by Vincent Willem Van Gogh. VII: A landscape by Hercules Pieterszoon Seghers]

Topic(s) of this poem: art

Form: Prose Poem

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Poem Submitted: Thursday, April 2, 2015

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