This is a specular poem, one stanza is a mirror image of the other. It
seemed appropriate for the subject. The title is from a painting by Van Gogh
that now exists only in reproduction and fascinated Francis Bacon so much he
did a series of six paintings in homage. Tell me what you think.
SELF PORTRAIT ON THE ROAD TO TARASCON
He finally burns in fire-bombed Dresden,
through his colours, like a cat,
takes on other lives - remains
consumed by the landscape he places himself within.
Not painting, he walks instead
motionless, outside the space our eyes view him.
Exact centre
he portrays an awkward marionette entwined
in adamantine vertical and horizontal grids
of horizon trees and road
with no order of perspective,
stuck in the never-never land of his journey with backpack
somewhere between dimensions two and three
where his shadow finds consolation
on the picture surface rather than the road -
yet to face his monsters his form tarries.
Yet to face his monsters his form tarries
on the picture surface rather than the road -
where his shadow finds consolation
somewhere between dimensions two and three
stuck in the never-never land of his journey with his pack
with no order of perspective
of horizon trees and road.
In adamantine vertical and horizontal grids
he portrays an awkward marionette entwined.
Exact centre,
motionless outside the space our eyes view him,
not painting, he walks instead
consumed by the landscape he placed himself within,
takes on other lives - remains
through his colours, like a cat.
He finally burns in fire-bombed Dresden.
bw
James
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