VAN GOGH (1853-1890) 125TH ANNIVERSARY POEMS

VAN GOGH

(1)

Years ago Van Gogh the marksman

hijacked a low flying plane and

forced its pilot to fly to the sun:

a few Dutch masterpieces were all that survived,

a few flakes of experience,

sunlight

trapped on the wing.

(2)*

His canvas bleeds,

black gun lies frozen by his side.

His heart falls

broken

from the butcher's cart,

slides

onto the infested street

and in his paint

metal vultures skid,

Van Gogh

stirring it up again.

*The original inspiration for this poem came from a chance observation of what looked like a sheep's heart lying in the middle of a Newcastle street. Evidently fallen debris from a passing vehicle, its blood spattered the road as cars darted over and around it. The following quotation from Artaud's essay 'Van Gogh, the man suicided by society' discovered shortly after the completion of the poem is also relevant: 'Van Gogh was terribly sensitive. To be convinced of this just look at his seemingly panting face, which is also, from certain angles, the spellbinding face of a butcher.'

KEITH ARMSTRONG

JINGLING WITH ROBBIE BURNS!

THE DIVIDED SELF

‘When’er my muse does on me glance, I jingle at her.’  (Robert Burns).

Such an eye in a human head,

from the toothless baby

to the toothless man,

the Edinburgh wynds

bleed whisky.

Through all the Daft Days,

we drink and gree

in the local howffs,

dancing down

Bread Street.

Like burns with Burns

these gutters run;

where Fergusson once tripped,

his shaking glass

jumps

in our inky fingers,

delirium tugs

at our bardish tongues;

dead drunk,

we dribble down

a crafty double

for Burke & Hare,

heckle a Deacon Brodie

gibbering

on the end

of the hangman’s rope.

In all these great and flitting streets

awash with cadies,

this poet’s dust

clings

like distemper to our bones.

We’re walking through

the dark and daylight,

the laughs

and torture

of lost ideals.

Where is the leader of the mob Joe Smith,

that bowlegged cobbler

who snuffed it on these cobbles,

plunging

from this stagecoach pissed?

Where is the gold

of Jinglin’ George Heriot?

Is it in the sunglow on the Forth?

We’re looking for girls of amazing beauty

and whores of unutterable filth:

‘And in the Abbotsford

like gabbing asses

they scale the heights

of Ben Parnassus.’

Oh Hugh me lad

we’ve seen some changes.

In Milne’s, your great brow scowls the louder;

your glass of bitterness

deep as a loch:

‘Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear

And the rocks melt wi’ the sun.’

Oh Heart

of Midlothian,

it spits on

to rain

still hopes.

Still hope in her light meadows

and in her volcanic smiles.

And we’ve sung with Hamish

in Sandy Bell’s

and Nicky Tams’

and Diggers’,

a long hard sup

along the cobbles

to the dregs

at the World’s End:

‘Whene’er my muse does on me glance,

I jingle at her.’

Bright as silver,

sharp as ice,

this Edinburgh of all places,

home to a raving melancholia

among the ghosts

of Scotland’s Bedlam:

‘Auld Reekie’s sons blythe faces’,

shades of Fergusson in Canongate.

And the blee-e’ed sun,

the reaming ale 

our hearts to heal;

the muse of Rose Street

seeping through us boozy bards,

us snuff snorters

in coughing clouds.

Here

on display

in this Edinburgh dream:

the polished monocle 

of Sydney Goodsir Smith,

glittering by

his stained inhaler;

and the black velvet jacket

of RLS,

slumped by

a battered straw hat.

And someone

wolf whistles

along Waterloo Place;

and lovers

kiss moonlight

on Arthur’s Seat:

see Edinburgh rise.

Drink

from her eyes.

KEITH ARMSTRONG

(from Imagined Corners, Smokestack Books, 2004). 

A HAPPY NEW YEAR TO DURHAM & KOSTROMA!

I'm currently taking part in a poetry exchange with Durham's twin city Kostroma in Russia with the support of Durham County Council's International Relations Office. On the morning of Friday January 16th, I discussed my poetry in a live video exchange with the Russian twin. Kostroma is one of the oldest Russian cities. It is located 330 km to the North East of Moscow on the confluence of the 

Volga and Kostroma rivers. Its population is c270,000.

The following are the poems I read and discussed in the video exchange:

TWIN THE WEAR WITH THE VOLGA

Twin the Wear with the Volga,

let salmon jump in Red Square.
Join in a Durham Revolution,

let a peaceful breeze blow here.

There’s this comrade in the Market Tavern,

looks like Nikita Khrushchev.

There’s a Moscow moon on top of his head,

his face is all ruddy and red.

Back in Russia, 

there’s a border reiver,

a wild vodka look in his eye,

he’s riding a horse like a cossack

from Kostroma to Crook Town and back.

Reach across water me darling,

it’s worth it.

Spread out your nets and your arms.

You might get a hot Russian lover

and Igor a sweet Wearside lass. 

So twin the Wear with the Volga,

let salmon jump in Red Square.

Join in a Durham Revolution,

let a peaceful breeze blow here.

There’s this strapping lad in the Kremlin,

he’s from an Easington back lane.

He’s wearing old Lenin’s disused fur hat,

there’s a Marxist tattoo on his chest.

Back in Durham,

there’s a soviet cosmonaut,

with a fishing rod in his hand,

he’s trying for a catch in the gathering dusk

as the river slides from yellow to black.  

Share a strong jar with me sweetheart, 

it’s warm now.

Hold the smile on your face.

You can sail light on the Baltic

and fly to the Urals with me.   

So twin the Wear with the Volga,

let salmon jump in Red Square.

Join in a Durham Revolution,

let a peaceful breeze blow here.

KEITH ARMSTRONG

NOTES TOWARDS A POEM ON RUSSIA

1

Red star night.

A badge in the sky.

Banners at the cross-roads.

Oh Mother Russia,

your past bleeding,

we are driving to the future

in a black limousine.

2

Rubbing hearts

in the lift

with travellers,

an atlas in microcosm,

all telling us,

by their accents,

the rooms

that they were born in.

In the Ukraine Hotel,

the bathrooms drip

with voices

and many tongues

sleep,

with the last words of the day

melting away on their lips.

3

Vodka is as warm

as a kiss.

It thrusts a burning finger

down your throat.

After a few,

we embrace.

Our arms surround

the World.

Warm Russian that he is,

Igor kisses me.

After fish and caviar,

the kiss

tastes good!

He signs away his writing:

To Keith,

who is both happy and sad.'

Another night

spurts into a dream.

In and out of trouble,

people will always

dance.

4

TO A FELLOW WRITER IN RUSTAVI

Last night we swopped our shirts.

They didn't fit our bodies too well

but they fitted our mood exactly.

5

WHITE NIGHTS

The huge spread of Leningrad.

Cold courtyard heart.

The winter is hard,

but the nights are turning,

from black to white,

to red and back again.

6

Circus,

and I'm dazzled;

not by the slender sway

of the supple trapezist

but by the spotlight

of a girl's blonde hair.

Shining from the audience,

she smiles

and all Russia smiles at me.

Such tricks in this moment.

I know I'll never see her again.

7

ZAGORSK

All the wailing

behind fine railings.

The seminary domes like suns

catch the sun

and priests, with long nights in their beards,

harmonize brilliantly.

Their voices,

polished gold,

sound out the walls

as a rocket

glints in the sky.

8

RUSTAVI STEELWORKS

It's hellish hot in here.

Beneath the Earth,

these are

men and women

sweating steel,

forging

futures for

their children.

Steel bars for prisons,

steel bars for playgrounds.

It's hellish hot in here.

Like a heart,

burning.

9

Three swaying silhouettes.

Three bureaucrats.

Along the street,

they joggle towards us.

In their cases,

they carry documents with drink

seeping between the lines.

And now they are laughing,

and now the words are laughing.

They are peace documents.

Messages.

Meant for bottles,

meant for oceans.

Keith Armstrong

Elvet Bridge 

(inspired by Guillaume Apollinaire)

Under Elvet Bridge the rain

flows with our loves.

Must I recall again?

Joy always used to follow after pain.

The days pass, the weeks pass

all in vain.

Neither time spent nor misspent

nor love comes back again.

Under Elvet Bridge the rain

flows with our loves.

Must I recall again?

Joy always used to follow after rain.

Keith Armstrong

SPIDER: A MEMORY

 

Spider's in

The Half Moon afternoon,

eyes beaming under the peak of his cap;

a drinker's smile

from the salt of the earth.

He's dreaming of the raging sea

and he sups a fretting old pint;

getting ready to walk

over the teeming hill.

A drool in The Shakespeare,

a let-slip of a grin,

academic locals

jawing themselves still

in dark rooms

of a Durham past;

brass bands blessed

on rampant days,

waves tumbling

from a balcony.

Praise be to Spider,

honour his life,

and the days spent

twinkling

through a city of bars.

KEITH ARMSTRONG

Reception for Kostroma delegation at Durham Town Hall. 
Photos by Tony Whittle.