|
Oil Paint Fingerprints
by Megan GuimbellotI painted you in gin and regret// splashing your colors in gesso to hide
mistake
after mistake, after
mistake.
But your fingertips still grace my back and your paintings still sit in our studio
Wet
And waiting/ dripping with colors you dripped over my body once
a million years ago.
They still stain these satin sheets
Prussian Blue and Payne's Gray
Naples Yellow
Ink-blotch fantasies of what was and
never
can
be.
Because as much as we cover the stark white of a thousand, thousand canvases with words and paint
with blood and tears
in excess
in droves
in avalanche// you are always Gauguin
packing your bags because you
just
can't
take it anymore.
And I am Van Gogh,
sun-struck with fingers-stained
in a field of crows. 12/07/2013 Author's Note: Wind and sun take their toll.
Posted on 12/07/2013
Copyright © 2024 Megan Guimbellot
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by George Hoerner on 12/08/13 at 12:40 AM I recall once how that gin went down again and again. A girl 20 years junior took my hand and made me forget over and over until I did. A new life came my way and I've lived it the best I could. But the gin still calls and I can only close my eyes and try to forget. Nice write lady. |
| Posted by Philip F De Pinto on 12/08/13 at 01:34 PM this ode is right up my impressionist alley. I think in this life we are all Van Goghs heavily misunderstood and undervalued and invested in some potential love to occur to us and once occurred, to stick around, for that is the key, save this love interest just happens to be Gauguin, restless beyond his artistic means who is always caught in the act of packing his grip and heading for the Marquesas, where he thinks innocence resides, where he thinks to evade love, which for him is a snare, which of course he could not, given love is evident in his every brush stroke, as is clearly evident in this work. |
|
