"What was that you said?" The artist turned his head

For fear the other man would see his face, the glimmer of a tear.

"You’re going across the ocean; always had a notion

To paint those dusky maidens over there?

They may give you their hearts, but you will only paint their nether parts

And round them draw an ugly line.

Fine! Just go;

See if I care!

Before you’re half way there, I’ll be famous everywhere!"

He points to all his canvasses around the wall.

"Here are my gems, rarer than ink black pearls!

My bedroom there in Arles,

Sunflowers, golden as April showers!

Look at that light, reflecting through a crystal prism, and

Major what’s his name, unique, in pointalism!"

A step, a swish, a click, the man has gone.

The artist, faceing stark reality, is alone.

Feverishly, seizing the palette knife, he seeks to rip and tear

The easels virgin scene.

Inflicting the tool, instead, to cut his ear.

Working by candlelight , throughout the night, at morning light

He sees, ,

A deep red rose; open, bleeding, raw;

Oozing onto the virgin snow.

Over and over you may hear him say

"One day, one day, all the world will know

Vincent Van Gogh."

by Gladys Taylor