the eternal wheat field

By John Kruth

a poem for vincent van gogh
on his 169th birthday

Vincent Van Gogh, Self-Portrait with a Straw Hat, 1887
Vincent Van Gogh, Wheatfield with Cypresses, 1889.

everything was alive

in your absinthe-green eyes

when only deep shades of blues

could still sooth your black moods

and red vineyards cloaked you

from the darkness

of the ever-encroaching winter

some say it was glaucoma or lead

poisoning that caused you to see

halos around everything

but maybe you were

just closer to heaven

than that drab bunch of potato

eaters who lived next door

everything you witnessed

breathed electricity

the shape of the wind

and clouds spinning in turbulent skies

as gray clouds like dark birds rose

from your pipe and sunflowers danced

with delight in the vase on your table

all the colors we knew

turned a different hue

when you painted them

and the wheat waved back in gratitude

so drop that pistol vincent,

the paintbrush will always love you better

nobody saw the world through your eyes

for another hundred years or so

and by that time, you were long gone

never knowing your paintings

— John Kruth, 2022

La Berceuse (Woman Rocking a Cradle);
A Portrait of Augustine-Alix Pellicot Roulin, 1851–1930) 1889

Vincent Van Gogh, Nursery on Schenkweg
April–May 1882

3 thoughts on “the eternal wheat field

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