Church at Auvers
Based on the painting, “Church at Auvers”, by Vincent Van Gogh, 1890
Note: This is one of his last paintings when he was losing all control
The ground is feverous, uneven, climaxing violently.
There is a lack of control in the brick facings.
I feel there is an internal struggle within the cloisters.
Listen to the murmurings, coming from the steeples.
There is no peace here. There is none anywhere.
I cannot hide deep enough inside myself.
This is hauntingly the same as the old church
of my birthplace, where my father is buried.
The trees are deformed. The road is gnarled, broken.
The houses reject the stones
and the stones refuse everything else.
People do not notice this.
I do. I cannot stop seeing what I see.
If I blind myself, I will see it.
Nothing has any kindness for a displaced man like me.
There is no comfort for me here.
There is none where I am going.
There is only the flames of roads,
the intense stares from the houses, the stones
threatening me, the trees pushing me away with anger.
Understanding
Based on the painting, “Landscape at Evagny: Church and Farm at Evagny”, by Camille
Pissarro, 1895.
Note: Pissarro was the only artist at all eight Impressionism art shows, yet he fled to Belgium in
1894 to escape political persecution as an anarchist.
There is a spiritual feeling in the air. Even I can feel it.
It moves as light across the fields like a plow.
A prayer from a non-believer. A gust of wind
that moves the sun to another solemn place.
I do not need to believe in this, or believe in anything.
I do not have to understand what I see in order to see it.
I could flee from what is in front of me,
but it would still be there, whether I was there or not.
There is an understanding in the world
that I do not need to understand
in order for it to be true. Nor does the world
need me to understand it in order for me to be wrong.
The world does quite well without me
and I struggle both in the world and without it.
I struggle with my art as much as with money to pay for it.
I struggle to work when my work seems so overwhelming.
It is the same as the man attending church who prays for me
whether I want him to or not. It is the same for the farmer
who works tirelessly in the fields, like a prayer without ending.
It is the same as for the woods that feel the air stirring with revival.
There is a spiritual feeling in the air.
Even the ones at loss for words can express it.
Even the ones at awe, praying loud as a plow, feel it.
I cannot deny what is clearly there, even if I do not understand it.
Chance Meeting
Based on a Renoir painting “The Parisian” (La Parisienne), 1874
A woman in a blue dress turns three-quarters, stops,
like she is about to answer a question,
as if she heard her name called in a party
uncertain if she has been called.
You know that feeling.
I was distracted by her.
I could not remember what I was about to say.
You remember those moments.
I wanted to talk to her but my words became dry.
Everything seemed to slow down.
You understand this if it has happened to you.
All I could do was staring as she moved on.
I wonder if she noticed me too,
if she hesitated because she wanted me to come,
if she noticed the blue words were folds on her dress,
if she left the same what-if I did.
These moments come and go
then we all move on into the crowd.
As for me, I never would know what to say.
I would always be lost in the crowd.
Instead of making something, I would never start it.
You, on the other hand, undoubtedly, could do better.
Jasmine
Based on the painting, “Bahram Gur in the Turquoise Pavilion”, by Saikh-zada of Khurasan, date
unknown
He proposed between the zither music
and the hand drum on her knee beneath the mosaic tent.
He served green tea using words of poetry
near the jasmines so she would know love
is the turning of delicate zither strings
and the ocean beats with a small drum.
He closed the flaps of the world
to be alone together like all lovers should.
She saw herself in the mirror of his jade eyes
and knew she was the center of his universe,
sweet and sour as fresh limes.
All he had to do was clap his hands
and all of this would vanish.
The sky would fold as a tent. The music
and poetry would become their blanket.
Other women would be forgotten as the stars.
When he proposed, there were finger cymbals in the sky.
Based on the painting, “Church at Auvers”, by Vincent Van Gogh, 1890
Note: This is one of his last paintings when he was losing all control
The ground is feverous, uneven, climaxing violently.
There is a lack of control in the brick facings.
I feel there is an internal struggle within the cloisters.
Listen to the murmurings, coming from the steeples.
There is no peace here. There is none anywhere.
I cannot hide deep enough inside myself.
This is hauntingly the same as the old church
of my birthplace, where my father is buried.
The trees are deformed. The road is gnarled, broken.
The houses reject the stones
and the stones refuse everything else.
People do not notice this.
I do. I cannot stop seeing what I see.
If I blind myself, I will see it.
Nothing has any kindness for a displaced man like me.
There is no comfort for me here.
There is none where I am going.
There is only the flames of roads,
the intense stares from the houses, the stones
threatening me, the trees pushing me away with anger.
Understanding
Based on the painting, “Landscape at Evagny: Church and Farm at Evagny”, by Camille
Pissarro, 1895.
Note: Pissarro was the only artist at all eight Impressionism art shows, yet he fled to Belgium in
1894 to escape political persecution as an anarchist.
There is a spiritual feeling in the air. Even I can feel it.
It moves as light across the fields like a plow.
A prayer from a non-believer. A gust of wind
that moves the sun to another solemn place.
I do not need to believe in this, or believe in anything.
I do not have to understand what I see in order to see it.
I could flee from what is in front of me,
but it would still be there, whether I was there or not.
There is an understanding in the world
that I do not need to understand
in order for it to be true. Nor does the world
need me to understand it in order for me to be wrong.
The world does quite well without me
and I struggle both in the world and without it.
I struggle with my art as much as with money to pay for it.
I struggle to work when my work seems so overwhelming.
It is the same as the man attending church who prays for me
whether I want him to or not. It is the same for the farmer
who works tirelessly in the fields, like a prayer without ending.
It is the same as for the woods that feel the air stirring with revival.
There is a spiritual feeling in the air.
Even the ones at loss for words can express it.
Even the ones at awe, praying loud as a plow, feel it.
I cannot deny what is clearly there, even if I do not understand it.
Chance Meeting
Based on a Renoir painting “The Parisian” (La Parisienne), 1874
A woman in a blue dress turns three-quarters, stops,
like she is about to answer a question,
as if she heard her name called in a party
uncertain if she has been called.
You know that feeling.
I was distracted by her.
I could not remember what I was about to say.
You remember those moments.
I wanted to talk to her but my words became dry.
Everything seemed to slow down.
You understand this if it has happened to you.
All I could do was staring as she moved on.
I wonder if she noticed me too,
if she hesitated because she wanted me to come,
if she noticed the blue words were folds on her dress,
if she left the same what-if I did.
These moments come and go
then we all move on into the crowd.
As for me, I never would know what to say.
I would always be lost in the crowd.
Instead of making something, I would never start it.
You, on the other hand, undoubtedly, could do better.
Jasmine
Based on the painting, “Bahram Gur in the Turquoise Pavilion”, by Saikh-zada of Khurasan, date
unknown
He proposed between the zither music
and the hand drum on her knee beneath the mosaic tent.
He served green tea using words of poetry
near the jasmines so she would know love
is the turning of delicate zither strings
and the ocean beats with a small drum.
He closed the flaps of the world
to be alone together like all lovers should.
She saw herself in the mirror of his jade eyes
and knew she was the center of his universe,
sweet and sour as fresh limes.
All he had to do was clap his hands
and all of this would vanish.
The sky would fold as a tent. The music
and poetry would become their blanket.
Other women would be forgotten as the stars.
When he proposed, there were finger cymbals in the sky.
Martin Willitts, Jr
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
 | |  | |  | |  | |  |
Martin Willitts is Co-Editor of
www.hotmetalpress and has been
widely published in chapbooks and
journals.
www.hotmetalpress and has been
widely published in chapbooks and
journals.