Thursday, January 28, 2021

Rain (Van Gogh), Sonnet #548


 










Not even he could paint the rain.

(Imagine trying to touch each drop

With the fingered tip of a brush!)

Perhaps trying drove him insane.

He was the master of the crop

Of wheat, of twisted tree and bush.

He caught killers dying in bars

And erased the night sky with stars.

He effaced himself with his eyes,

Made more of sunrise than sunrise.

Rain he could only imitate —

Slashing the canvas with his sword

Again and again — intimate

What is clouded inside the word.


My book of the first 200 of these sonnets is now available for purchase. Click here:

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