The Potato Eaters (for Van Gogh)
Potato Eaters
the good young painter comes
former pastor with a shock of red hair
and eyes palest blue as water
he wants to paint the family eating potatoes
we have dug from the earth
he is quite enthused by the fact we have dug our meal
we oblige and sit down to eat with him in the corner
sketching in the dim candle light
a mighty cost of tallow
a little oil and salt on the tubers
and we eat, filling our bellies with starch
and him with the view
when we are done and my wife clears the dishes
he thanks us, clasping my calloused hand in his smooth one
Into it he has pressed a coin, silver and worn
barely enough to cover the burnt candle
at night I dream of lamb juicy and rank as a flower
the taste crying on my thick tongue
I hear the baaing in the field
and I am awake with the blood of dawn
slicing the horizon
and the hard cold ground that must be broken
Lucy Simpson
Seattle
2/2008
Comments
I really like this one. Great imagery! I like the contrast between the "calloused" hand of the farmer and the "smooth: one of the painter. One with a hard life the other a life of ease.
I love how he's "enthused" in fact amazed that they are eating food that they have planted, harvested, and are now eating. He most certainly has had everything provided to him. How funny it is when they are finished eating and the painter presses the coin in his hand and the farmer thinks "barely enough to cover the burnt candle". What a cheap bastard. LOL
The sad part is that these people who farm and raise sheep, can't even eat the sheep. I take it the sheep are their only source of income? He dreams of eating something other than those damned potatoes.
Thanks for sharing.
Thanks Tamia. I think the poem needs work, but I like its premise and its bones. I think Van Gogh struggled financially. His brother Theo bailed him out a lot. I don't think he had a lot to give. Before Van Gogh became a painter, he was a preacher, a revolutionary firebrand. I wanted to express the irony. Was sort of thinking about the anthropologist crouching in the corner of cabin in Appalachia, observing the natives. Something demeaning about that process, but also beautiful. I studied anthropology, but decided I couldn't sit in a corner.
Lucy
thanks Math I agree bout working artists! I am now typing this as my two-year-old grabs at my arm. I think much of the gorgeous twentieth century writing has come from people who worked. I'm reading some Richard Hugo of late thanks to another working poet friend, a kindergarten teacher.
Lucy
Love your stuff.
"lamb juicy and rank as a flower"
thanks Lavender. I remember my mother, who was Irish, talking about all her ancestors only having potatoes to eat. Her family came over here during the Great Depression.
Lucy
Thanks Math. My kindergarten-teacher friend's poetry rocks my world. After my kids are older, I may train as a teacher. I like kids and so many teachers don't get that the trouble makers are usually pretty neat kids.
Lucy, who likes lamb with her taters
That's what's lovely about your poetry: that every line you write is bursting to push its story beyond its last letter. You create as detailed a story with the elisions as you do with the words you leave present. I am always amazed with your poems.
Thanks so much Michelle. I'm so happy you like my work. You are also a very good writer.
Lucy, about to post something maudlin, personal and hasty