The World is Van Gogh

A Poem by H. J. Buell

The world is Monet.

At night.

When colors slip into the sun.

And the lights glow like Christmas.

It’s an Unfinished Picasso.

With people.

Trying to put their confused shapes together.

And make themselves feel whole.

Sometimes it’s Van Gogh.

Angry red.

Drowning in a sea of human ignorance.

And cutting myself to pieces just to stay sane.

The world is Van Gogh

I have a terrible need of — dare I say the word? — religion. Then I go out at night to paint the stars… – Vincent Van Gogh, Arles, 1888

Like cold children warming themselves by the side of a fire, we all learn to appreciate the light and warmth of art. Yet few of us are ever taught to create fire, or delve into the deep well of inspiration at the root of all creation.

Monet, Picasso, and Van Gogh were all artists. Poets with paintbrushes, coloring our lives with their souls. Their brush strokes are a history of the steps humanity takes, ever forward, but the colors… The colors are tears, and cries. Unseen, and too often unanswered.