Posts
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| Vincent Van Gogh - Wheatfields with Reaper at Sunrise |
Xanthopsia
It wasn't absinthe or digitalis
in the Yellow House the two of them shared
that led him to layer the chrome coronas
or yellow the sheets in the bedroom in Arles
or tinge the towel negligently hung
on the hook by the door, or yellow the window,
be it distant view or curtain, yolk-lick
the paintings on the wall by the monkish bed.
No, it wasn't sunstroke or the bright light
of southern France that yellowed the cafe terrace
at the Place du Forum, a pigment
intensified by the little white tables, the white stars
in a blue sky, the deep-saffron floor, it wasn't
some chemical or physical insult that stained
the vase with 12 sunflowers a urinous
yellow, the water in the vase yellow,
also the table under the vase--such
a troubled life of yellow leading up
to Vincent's hurled wineglass arousing
Gaugin's rapier to sever his best friend's left ear,
the story they made up that Vincent lopped it
off himself, wrapped it, ran down the road
to the nearby bordello, where his favorite whore
opened her present and fainted. He would
have bled to death if Gauguin hadn't hauled him
to hospital next morning. Even in "Self-Portrait
with Bandaged Ear," his necessary color washes in
despite greatcoat and pipe. Science has a word--
Xanthopsia--for when objects appear
more yellow than they really are, but who's to say?
As yellow as they are, they are.
Maxine Kumin
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| Mosaic on stone wall somewhere near Marval |
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| Sunflowers & Wheat - Feuillade |
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| Fading tournesol - near St. Estephe |
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| Sunflowers - Charras |
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| "The Wound is the place where the light enters you" - Rumi |
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| Golden spools of hay - Charras |
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| Silver Threads & Golden Needles |
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| Harvest time |
Sauna days & hot sticky blue-black nights; wood doves calling (though never complaining). Hard to believe in June the cows were knee deep in lush grasses, standing water. Now the bone dry fields look like they've had a crewcut, hay spun into golden spools; hawks in attendance waiting for the slip of a careless mouse. This thought crosses my mind: how could anyone be sad living next to a field of sunflowers?" Later biking home, I see the sunflowers drooping and fading. Alors, a tiny bleeding edge of sorrow, like a razor cut.
A Haiku from my brother Mark
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| "Our Dreams Explain Us" |
Like cats caught in snarls of light
Pouncing on mouse hopes
Life stalks imagined joys
"Poetry is the past which breaks out into our hearts." Rilke
There are so many ways to enter the divine -- light is just one of them, breathing is another; poetry, meditation, bells, Kirtan chants, birdsong, Beehive Flowers, painting, Sufi whirling, Pavarotti, Sigur Ros, the color Indigo, the scent of a rose, une bouteille de vin de Bordeaux 2009, deux verres and Beauty, Beauty, Beauty.
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| The Soul of a Rose - John William Waterhouse, 1908 |
And let's not forget TAROT...
Below, a mural on the wall of the Maisons des Associations, where they still play Jeu de Tarot. Hiking on the Voie Verte (old railway line) one fine summer's day, I saw a small sign exclaiming "Tarot Ce Soir" on the way into the obscure little village of St. Germain de Montbron. Oh how thrilled I was, rushing in like Madame Blavatsky thinking I'd uncovered another chapter for "The Secret Doctrine!" Tant pis... instead, a group of garrulous, old Frenchmen, drinking tumblers of amber colored Pinaud, playing Jeu de Tarot. They were happy for me to join them, but I didn't really know les regles (the rules), though I managed to take a tumble(r).
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| Tarot cards from a deck intended for games, not divination - 15th c. |
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| Mural - Club de Tarot - St. Germain de Montbron |
SUNRISE
You can die for it--
an idea,
or the world. People
an idea,
or the world. People
have done so,
brilliantly,
letting
their small bodies be bound
to the stake,
creating
an unforgettable
fury of light. But
this morning,
climbing the familiar hills
in the familiar
fabric of dawn, I thought
of China
and India
and Europe, and I thought
how the sun
blazes
for everyone just
so joyfully
as it rises
under the lashes
of my own eyes, and I thought
I am so many!
What is my name?
What is the name
of the deep breath I would take
over and over for all of us? Call it
whatever you want, it is
happiness, it is another one
of the ways to enter
fire.
Mary Oliver
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| Sunrise by the stone table - Chateau de Charras |
A lot of yellow flowers here in New Mexico too. August is the mellow yellow month!
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