Titian

Van-Gogh-Starry-Night-over-Rhone

He brushed her curves –
she was soft at the edges,
and he tousled
voluminous, titian hair
with master strokes,
yet a thirst slurped the water jar
and her face would vanish.
He could hardly bear to paint her,
but he did, despite lapsed
time dotted like small flecks of acrylic
on a palette stained with red wine;
interludes of rage and darkness
and heartache’s brittle impasto
would smear the bleak canvas
where her porcelain face should radiate.
A sigh fell over the blue wash of the Rhone
while he watched memories escape
with the wine – he loved her
to the edge, and he would paint it.

Love’s Fair Bounty

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Picture: Vincent Van Gogh

What summer’s sad fair
wouldst have me grace thy lips rightly
without strokes of seduction?
Tantalising is it not when ripeness befits
us as hosts and we lay warmly against each?
O, to take comfort
from those comely eyes is indeed
like breath itself,
for they eagerly greet such slender hopes
with backs as yet unbroken against
the firmament’s green sheets,
and that from whence we lay, to steer to riches
inside of the vast continent orb above
this fair orchard is remarkable. ‘Tis little to suffer
her streamers of adulation as we cradle
true love’s generosity
amongst each other in these verdant fields.

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