Adam Strickson
Vincent and I discuss 'Bedroom at Arles' (Version 3)
Vincent, this picture
is an affirmation of pain.
I can't believe you think
looking at it
rests the brain.
I know
you painted your white chair yellow
to let in sunshine
but why did you hammer three inch nails
into the walls
and block up the window
with those mucky bricks?
When you borrowed money
to buy the bed
you told me
you were going to paint
a child on the headboard
or a nude.
You were going to paint
some company.
No Vincent,
a self portrait is not
company.
I've left some presents
to cheer you up when you get home —
no, not more tubes of thick yellow paste:
Ask your brother for those.
In the blue vase,
I’ve placed a bouquet of children.
Under the red counterpane,
you’ll find a wife.
I left a baguette
and some Belgian chocolate
on the bedside table.
Gaston’s coming round tomorrow
to sort out the window.
Oh, I’ve confiscated your gun —
I found it behind the Japanese print.
I can’t work out
why the chair seat
is a lily pad
but when they let you out,
I suggest you fold up
those violet walls of loneliness
and give them to the postman.
What do you mean,
you’ve run out of paint?
You haven’t listened
to a word I’ve said, have you?
Do you eat the stuff?
is an affirmation of pain.
I can't believe you think
looking at it
rests the brain.
I know
you painted your white chair yellow
to let in sunshine
but why did you hammer three inch nails
into the walls
and block up the window
with those mucky bricks?
When you borrowed money
to buy the bed
you told me
you were going to paint
a child on the headboard
or a nude.
You were going to paint
some company.
No Vincent,
a self portrait is not
company.
I've left some presents
to cheer you up when you get home —
no, not more tubes of thick yellow paste:
Ask your brother for those.
In the blue vase,
I’ve placed a bouquet of children.
Under the red counterpane,
you’ll find a wife.
I left a baguette
and some Belgian chocolate
on the bedside table.
Gaston’s coming round tomorrow
to sort out the window.
Oh, I’ve confiscated your gun —
I found it behind the Japanese print.
I can’t work out
why the chair seat
is a lily pad
but when they let you out,
I suggest you fold up
those violet walls of loneliness
and give them to the postman.
What do you mean,
you’ve run out of paint?
You haven’t listened
to a word I’ve said, have you?
Do you eat the stuff?
Adam Strickson is a poet and playwright who lives near Huddersfield and works mainly with refugees and those on society’s margins. He has recently written scripts for Burnley Youth Theatre,
Peshkar Productions (Oldham) and Chol Theatre.
Peshkar Productions (Oldham) and Chol Theatre.
Page(s) 46-47
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