William Michaelian

Poems, Notes, and Drawings

St. Rémy

May 1889. Vincent has just entered the asylum at St. Rémy. Or have I entered it in July 2020? I close my eyes. Careful consideration yields no definite answer; rather, the image of a giant colorful moth is imprinted on the inside of my eyelids, very much in the way stars appear in the night sky. I paint the moth; I paint the sky; and, while painting, I wonder how long I have been blind; I wonder what kind of blindness it is that is accompanied by a vision so beautiful that it is terrifying. If blindness is the word. When has it not been? But if now it is not, what word is? Not madness, for madness is not half as terrifying. Madness is something that one is, or has, from the beginning, and which, like a flower, slowly grows to be understood, and which, too, like a faithful friend, closes at night to preserve its essence for another sunrise. I open my eyes. Another riddle. Divine.

July 19, 2020

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Categories: New Poems & Pieces

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