Some Thoughts on my Van Gogh Poem

I uploaded a blogpost a few days ago. It’s a poem I wrote, months ago by now, about Van Gogh painting Starry Night. I see him, painting the beautiful sky he wishes he could see. Granted, I’m hardly in a position where I can consolidate Mr. Van Gogh’s intentions or thought processes, but as a writer I’m in exactly the right position to imagine as much, even project a little of myself into the painter, much like Lee Israel, who wrote countless (well, actually someone counted: 400) forged letters, using her skills as a writer to project a believable and relevant version of the person whom she sought to replicate.

Somehow, I could see him clearly. A man who had no idea he’d one day be famous, who had no idea of the worth of the work he was unable to sell or even trade for a drink, he had no idea what to do. He didn’t have very many friends, maybe a few kind strangers, a handful of acquaintances, no one close enough to help much, none he’d failed to drive away. So he walks, probably a little drunk, definitely hungry, and if the bugs weren’t after his blood, then the cold was after his fingers. Maybe if he gets better, he thinks, he’ll get enough to pay some debts, a good meal. He needs to find something truly beautiful, so great that it won’t matter he’s a terrible painter, the subject will speak for itself.

The view of the town, he hopes, will inspire that awe. He climbs up through the hills, trips on his way, tries to keep his canvas clean. He sits and he looks in anticipation.

But there’s nothing.

It’s gotten late, the sky is dark. It’s empty, just as empty as his canvas. As his pockets. He can see some lights on in the village, he can see the glow around each blaze. The sky, however, holds no stars. Well, he imagines they’re there, concealed behind the clouds so helpfully filling the air with humidity. Out of reach, which has come to be the norm.

He’s alone, so he might cry. Why couldn’t he look at the sky and see brilliant lights? He wanted to see swirling colors so stupidly breathtaking that the blasted village below quailed in comparison.

Then he realizes he’s seen in his minds eye exactly what he came for and rushes to get it on the canvas. Then, in a fit of frustration that often accompanies the creation of art, he slashes a dark line through the beautiful scene. Outing his own gorgeous lie.

Now this man I saw was in all likelihood not Vincent Van Gogh. But Van Gogh did facilitate the discovery of this character. When I gazed at Starry Night, all this none-too-accurate-narrative is what came to mind. What resulted, a poem (which was clearly necessary, as you can see the atrocious length of the description of my vision, seeing as poetry has the wonderful tendency to make us pick our words wisely), was a collaboration between that old painter and myself. It was a journey into his life and mine.

Well, I posted said poem onto my blog in the morning. Three people had read it as of that afternoon. An unimpressive number, I know. Weeks ago, it would have devastated me that all the work I’d put in got so little gratification. We are taught to always reach for the stars. Mr. Woodruff, a former CEO of Coca-Cola, would agree with me, I think, in that sometimes we have to paint our own stars. This website has a fun little function where I can see how many people have viewed a page, and where they are from. One from India, one from Canada, and one from Sweden; these are the people who viewed and liked my poem that day. I have never met these people, nor do I know their names or faces. The chances of me ever interacting with them again are slim to none. But these are entire human beings. Three entire human beings, with crazy, complicated lives, with passions and problems, took the time to read the words I had put together, to allow me to put an image in their head (thought undoubtedly altered from what I intended, as we’ve seen through Mr. Van Gogh). They clicked a like button, a button so overused in our day to day life, and they went on with their lives. But just as I had a little dance with Vincent, these three clashed with my words to create their own perceptions, to hear my message and formulate their individual, though silent responses.

I might have ranted about lots of accomplishments in this space. Perhaps I should have. Big, relevant issues, shiny and impressive achievements. I could speak about far more “successful” endeavors, some with hundreds of views; about that time I did an improvised speech competition because I detested public speaking, and how now I love it; I could talk about actually getting an early draft of this poem published in a literary journal. Except if there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s that you should write what really lingers with you, what haunts your thoughts and is itching to burst from your fingertips, and that isn’t always what you think people will want to hear, but what you think you need to say. Those three strangers sharing a moment of poetry with me are my painted stars, and I’ll tell you, they don’t feel like a lie.

FUN  FACT #1: Apparently, those black slashes in the middle of Starry Night are believed to be trees. Also, I think he painted this from inside a facility of some sort after the ear incident.

FUN FACT #2: An early draft of this poem was published in an arts magazine, and I had to read it out loud on publishing day. I say “had to” and not “got to” because reading a first draft of a revised poem out loud is pretty painful.

LAST FUN FACT: All this was originally going to be an essay I had to submit, but it grossly exceeded the word count so it had to fall into the Kitchen Sink.

WAIT I LIED ONE MORE: All writers should have a file on their computers named the Kitchen Sink, where they put all their great work that can’t currently be used or doesn’t fit in their current project, but might be useful in the future!