His first grey offerings were spare.

Grim peasant scenes of tables bare,

save plump potatoes, here and there,

Why should we care, why should we care?

*

His brother, Theo, told him, “no,

don’t denigrate poor people so.

We know their lives are full of woe,

just let them go, just let them go.”

*

“To be an artist catching eyes

your canvas must excite, surprise,

bypassing truth, creating lies,

with vivid dyes, with vivid dyes.”

*

In Paris, neath its smoky pall,

Vincent’s hopes began to fall.

That didn’t meet his needs at all,

Provence would call. Provence would call.

*

Enthused by Midi’s dazzling light

his demons did (at first) take flight.

His art became his heart’s delight

like Starry Night, like Starry Night.

*

That Nature all around him lay

inspired van Gogh each sunkissed day.

He painted cornfields, stacks of hay,

It felt like play; it felt like play.

*

Irises, blue; sunflowers, too,

thrusting from vases, vibrant hue.

He saw their beauty shining through.

His eye was true, his eye was true.

*

From Arles he thought he’d never roam,

its absinthe bars, its grassy loam.

The Yellow House became his home.

His mouth would foam; his mouth would foam.

*

Yes, sadly, madness came along,

His mental health was far from strong.

To lose his mind would not take long,

it  all went wrong; it all went wrong.

*

Paul Gauguin came, a friend and peer,

but  soon he changed the atmosphere.

Vincent, in some delusion’s fear,

Chopped off an ear; chopped off an ear.

*

He spent some time in Saint-Remy

responding  well to therapy.

Upon release he’d leave Midi.

Where would he flee? Where would he flee?

*

To Paris he returned again,

he’d  seek redemption by the Seine.

Depressed, his life could not sustain.

He died in pain. He died in pain.

*

His legacy, beyond compare,

entrances all who stand and stare.

To change the world of Art, he’d dare.

A talent rare. A talent rare.