Tormented by the violent
slashes of swelling black crows

flying erratic over the corn,
and by the electric scintilla

of yellow light rising as stars
over the river Rhone,

and by the shades of azure blue,
capturing the white chalky glaze

of the sky as it spreads west
and east over the vanishing city,

and, seized by the blunt tombstones
where the derelict orphans

duck in refuge under pine trees
the amazed hue of green liquor,

you surrendered to color –
to all of its hallucinogenic ways –

and you split yourself open, too,
at the edge of your chest

where your inner heart opened
up an eye, gleaning and radiant

and wide awake, and you weaved
and twisted yourself tightly

into an ambulant paintbrush,
an emergency, of art.

– Ken Meisel

Author’s Note: It’s obviously written to commemorate Vincent Van Gogh. Some artists give themselves in their entirety to their art—such is their devotion. In doing so, they themselves become art. I believe this is so in regards to Vincent Van Gogh. We are blessed with this gift of himself. His offering of himself and his creation—as a form of art—is, well, art.