Yellow Paint Poem by Amelie Ison
Yellow Paint
Well, all the yellow paint that you consume
Will not paint happiness inside you.
A splash of paint on your internal organs
Will not brighten up you like it brightens up your walls,
And it will not cover up the stain of despair
That a thousand towels could not mop away.
They will always think you're mad
For swallowing something so toxic,
And they will always call you stupid for trying
Something that will never work.
You cannot paint the walls of your internal organs,
Despite all the paint that you consume:
Yellow or not, it will never make you happy;
It will only make it worse.
Yeats' summation of his thought, art and life, what is it? He says it is "the completion of my life" art and life inextricably intertwined, art ultimately an expression of personality.
In a letter written a few weeks before his death in 1939, a letter written to Lady Elizabeth Pelham, January 4th that year, Ueats sums up his thought, life and art:
It is what it is. You seem to have an agenda here: I.e. to attack Vangogh when you know little to nothing about his time in Arles, which largely remains undocumented, a mystery
I'm back again this morning, early, Thursday June 13th fresh from sleep and the verdict is the same on this so-called poem: shoddy, incompetent work.
And if you cannot do effective research, then give it home instead of nailing yourself in your foot—yes, this poem is that bad like a lot of your silly ones, only worse.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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10/17/2026 12:53:41 AM # rel_20260925T122446Z_7d6ee41
Well, I was reading some New Poems and Viola! This poem which, well it is just shoddy work. Shoddy uninformed research, you just using some heresay to spread even more inane gossip!