His paint oozed solitude and sadness.
The turbulent brush almost fell
from his hands. He knew it so well,
this field of rude life and death,
its diverging blood-rusted paths
leading to the same horizon.
The violent polarity of yellow field
of wheat daubed in rows
and blue sky smudged with clouds
erupts with black marks of crows,
harbingers and bearers of his goodbye.
Caged by fits of melancholy,
with nowhere to go and no escape,
the wing-clipped artist had to fly.
Kim M. Russell, 25th August 2020
My response to dVerse Poets Pub Poetics: Waiting on Wheat
This Tuesday our guest host is Rosemarie, who brings us a quotation from The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry and poems by Pablo Neruda.
Rosemarie says that, living alone in her cream-box-of-a-home for more than four months now, she has had time to read poetry and has grown very fond of Pablo Neruda and his rich use of the word ‘wheat’.
Today, we are writing about wheat and we can even borrow some lines from Neruda and paint them with our own colours. My inspiration came from Vincent van Gogh’s ‘Wheatfield with Crows’, probably his last painting before his suicide, and the form I have chosen is an irregular sonnet.