Van Gogh Leaves Paris By Train for Arles
Theo, gazing out at the passing landscapes
I thought of you.
Here in the south, snow
on the distant mountains
reminds me of Japanese prints,
the clear air defining
everything in bold shapes,
like those in woodcuts.
In this brighter light
fewer strokes will be needed.
The land is rather flat,
and near dusk a red sun
settles into the snowy horizon,
melts, and the long night begins.
There aren’t the refuges
we had in Paris, and Arles
is expensive. I don’t know
where I can find affordable
canvases and paints. However,
the morning light makes up
for everything. There is a dusting
of snow on the ground, and yet
flowering orchards thrive
in the fresh light.
There are grey olive trees, orange banks,
washerwomen in white bonnets,
a green river flecked with gold,
and red vineyards.
The place has the optimism
that school girls dressed up
for a spring play have—
the peach and plum trees as lit up
as bridesmaids, pink
and white blossoms
in their hair. Theo, I hope
you can make your way often
to Arles. Spread the word.
In time we can form a colony
of artists in the south,
where there are fewer distractions,
but with russet footbridges,
cobalt skies, a citron sun…
I’m not young, but I’m not
finished yet. I can do new things,
work you can be proud of.
Look, in Arles even a bent old
apple tree holds sprays
of flowers.
by Bob Bradshaw
Editor’s Note: The vivid imagery in this epistolary poem effortlessly supports the underlying allegory. Lovers of Van Gogh’s artwork will find this a delightful read.
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