Watching over quiet water
he set a church with ten black houses,
then a black and vacant sailboat
inviting passage moored below;
two dark figures trudge a stairway,
turning backs upon the quayside;
stars like catherine wheels above them,
ripple cross-hatched in the river.
In Saint-Remy the sky was Other,
Here he showed a savage nature,
cloud approaching, now in colour,
an angry monster gathering power;
stars splash and whirl above the hills
and the raging sunlit moon,
wheeling widdershins flaming yellow,
lights a cypress licks the sky,
draws fire from earth on which we stand.
Yet the scene is not all savage:
the township’s lamplit habitations
settle round an old church steeple,
piercing skywards like the cypress,
but calm the landscape stretching toward us,
securely tying down the canvas,
as bushy trees like troops in combat
defend the half-lit sleeping town.
Still the mountain probes the skyline,
sniffs the winds and gnaws the cloud
but van Gogh felt he’d reached completion,
achieving vision far from simple,
strong as Cezanne’s petite sensation
(so he felt between his seizures)
burning away his painter’s life.
He had portrayed his common people,
warmed the artist’s hands he spoke with,
a workman’s hands he found his truth with,
crowned the great fire in his soul.
So his bleaker palette thawed,
blue and orange, violet yellow,
harmonised extremes of colour.
Thus burning nature through him spoke.
Every vibrant brushstroke counted
as he caught his times’ swift passage,
scattering crows in golden cornfields,
exploding light above the township
where he’d captured dark interiors,
the labours of a common people,
depicted homely hands and faces.
offering them his gift of friendship,
offering us his gift of art.
©Terry Hodgson2020
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