Heading On
Far from home in the rains
the road is straight and wide
and that's the only road the traveler knows
and though the lamp posts light it all along
Summer or winter or heavy rains
Your home is always there
With shutters down, and frilled curtains glimmering behind the lowered rims
and a light flickering inside its heart
Just a speck, a tiny dot
Enough to warm a frozen being
Deep in these woods the path can't be seen
Weeds and undergrowth have covered it all
Flowers with their enticing yellow arrest the sight, leave a drunken stupor and stop the breath.
Your trees have taken a touch of the blue and a delicate pink.
Truly, you have entered the heart of heaven O Vincent Van Gogh.
Who the woman was whom you took there in this moment of bliss, the world may never know.
Sushama Karnik.
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6Françoise Dhulesia, György Fülöp and 4 others3 comments
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Françoise Dhulesia
What a beautiful intimate address to the creator, with hints of a monologue or even an interior monologue.
In-between a narrator whose identity's unknown and the addressee whose notoriety's renowed, the reader's pleasure is to travel through a mental canvas, heading on the colourful, sensory path of life.
The narrator is the storyteller that seems to know the creator almost intimately: the evocation of the atmosphere in Van Gogh's paintings is evoked with all a sublety that only a connoisseur can so well phrase.
The last sentence, nevertheless, ends the poem on a mysterious note, on a mystery: the identity of the woman's left unrevealed and that is all the better: this leaves a space for the viewers to enter the frame and re-create their own story. That is what art's for, to offer an empty space for us readers, interpreters, viewers, listeners to keep heading on.
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