“Ode to Joy” – Beethoven 9th Symphony sheet music from google“Starry Night” by Vincent van Gogh
Poem Series – Vincent van Gogh and Ludwig van Beethoven #1 to #10
1.
Vincent and Ludwig # 1.
“Do you know, my dear Ludwig, that I’ve sold just one of my paintings?”
“Yes, Vincent, do not despair, my friend, they cannot, will not, fathom the flower that reveals its petals before their eyes”
“I suppose you are right, old friend. They cannot, will not, hear your ‘Ode to Joy’, though it is you who are deaf!”
“But my dear Vincent, you do hear my ‘Ode to Joy’, deep in your soul”
“Yes, I hear it, I feel it, Ludwig, flowing like liquid paint through the canvas of my veins”
“My dear Vincent, I too feel your brush-strokes, and in each swirl of colour I hear your joy, and I can touch your pain”
“What does that make us, my friend? Two men cast adrift on the bluest seas, leaving nothing behind, yet heading nowhere. What does that make us then?”, asks Vincent.
“Human”, replies Ludwig, smiling.
“Human, yes, dear Ludwig”.
“And that is enough”, says Ludwig, almost to himself.
“It is enough”, smiles Vincent.
“To be human. It is enough.”
Vincent laughs, as Ludwig watches a gentle wave caress their toes, through their tattered shoes.
Symphony No. 5 sheet music from google
2.
Ludwig and Vincent #2
‘what inspired you to write your 9th?’, Vincent asks Ludwig.
‘wasn’t it madness that drove you to sketch starry nights above a sea of Irises?’, Ludwig asks Vincent.
‘madness it was, Ludwig. A madness of the soul. Restless, frantic, maddening madness’, whispers Vincent.
‘what does that make us, my dear Vincent?’, Ludwig murmurs, leaning close to Vincent.
‘sane’, says Vincent.
‘yes, Vincent. Sane’, responds Ludwig.
Vincent reaches up and feels around for his phantom ear,
Ludwig smiles, touching his ear that once could hear.
“Irises” by Vincent van Gogh
3.
Talking with Vincent #3
Alone,
in conversation with Vincent, we talk.
‘loneliness got to me’, he says with a smile.
I smile. I know.
‘I tried, I honestly tried’, says Vincent.
I know. I tried as well.
‘I tired, eventually I just tired’, he said with a wink.
I am tired too, I said.
‘I know’, replied Vincent.
art from google
4.
Vincent and Ludwig #4
“we are mere vagabonds, scraping here and there, never belonging anywhere, and never wanting to belong somewhere” said Vincent to Ludwig.
“yes my dear Vincent, we walk this earth with tattered shoes, our madness binding us in friendship, feted now and then, yet mostly left to ramble through our lonesome lives” Ludwig says, looking down at his weather-beaten boots.
Vincent and Ludwig share a smile, each knowing the feelings felt when sinking deeper into the depths of despair.
“your ‘sunflowers’ always bores a hole into my heart, my dear Vincent, your flourishes live in the swirls and your warmth and love for humanity shines through, tearing at my insides” Ludwig murmurs to Vincent.
“just as your ‘ode to joy’ bores a hole into my soul, with your unselfish, transcendent love for all living beings, alive and resounding in every note” Vincent says, looking into the distance.
“what are we, my dear friend, tortured by our inner demons, left to rot by the wayside, torn and broken by this harsh world all around us” Ludwig asks Vincent.
“we may be mad, and maddeningly so, my friend, but why do we see the smiles washed off the faces of the sane, why do we we tears trickling down from far too many eyes” Vincent says with a rueful smile.
“yes, my dearest Vincent, it often appears that this whole world, this whole veneer of civility, these people who have enough yet always clamouring for more, while those who have nothing hunger for just scraps” Ludwig says, almost to himself.
“and we see it every day, in their greed glazed eyes, their grubby grabbing hands, their world they call sane” Vincent mumbles.
“what are we then, Vincent, in this world of naked oppression, in these places of vulgar ostentation, in the midst of all this madness” Ludwig asks, looking to his friend.
“we are sane, my friend” Vincent says tugging at his phantom ear.
“sane, yes Vincent. sane” Ludwig says with a smile, his fingers feeling his ear that once could hear.
“sane“
Self Portrait by Vincent van Gogh
5.
Vincent and Ludwig #5
Vincent stared at the early evening sky.
Ludwig looked at his friend.
“why do we feel so alone, dear Ludwig, just look at this canvas, it bathes us, blankets us, and is filled with flashes of light” said Vincent.
“flashes of light, soaring like an orchestral crescendo, a blanket shared with a friend, yes, and yet, my dear Vincent, ifeel desolate”, whispered Ludwig.
“do you see the empty space between the flashes of light, my friend, that space is what your music colours“, Vincent said.
Ludwig looked up, smiling, ” yes, the space your colours infuse with hope, with every stroke of your brush, hope for those caught in all the empty spaces“.
“hope for us all, in each of our very own, empty spaces, yes“, Vincent smiled at his friend.
“empty spaces, but infused with colours, music, and hope“, whispered Ludwig, his smile broadening.
“hope“.
“hope“
art from google
6.
Vincent and Ludwig #6
“they call us mad, dear Vincent”, Ludwig said to his friend.
“even as you sketch starry nights on the blank canvas of this torrid life”.
“yes, my dear Ludwig, they call you insane too, even as you pluck odes to joy from the depths of deafness”.
“they call us mad”, whispers Vincent.
“mad, indeed”.
“I would rather be mad, than numb”, breathes Ludwig.
“I too would rather be mad than what they expect us to become”, Vincent sighs as the two men share a smile.
“mad, yet never mere shades of ice”.
“Café Terrace at Night” by Vincent van Gogh
7.
Vincent and Ludwig #7
“i paint starry nights, Ludwig, to help me forget each torrid day”
“and i compose odes to joy, Vincent, to keep pain at bay”
“we are alike, you and i, dear Ludwig”, Vincent says as he sketches a smile
“yes Vincent, we are alike, our tattered shoes yet to carry us across so many a mile”
from google
8.
Vincent and Ludwig #8
“I often wonder how hands so coarse are able to infuse a stark, naked canvas into a symphony of sensual brushstrokes”, Ludwig says with a wink.
Vincent laughs, “as have I, wondered that is, how such a stark raving mad soul may transform a mere gaggle of notes into soaring orchestral harmony”.
Ludwig smiles, nodding at Vincent, who smiles at his bruised hands.
“Wheat Field with Cypresses” by Vincent van Gogh
9.
Vincent and Ludwig #9
“i often write to Theo, my heart dripping bloodied ink on paper, burning up the parchment. Theo is my brother, dear Ludwig, who often sends me money, to get by” said Vincent.
“i understand, Vincent, life has dealt me similar circumstances, a jangle of cacophonous silence instead of the song of even the solitary bird” Ludwig breathes.
“i sketch my own pain”
“and i compose mine”
from google
10.
Vincent & Ludwig #10
“oh to hear a bird singing perched on a fresh twig, weeping down willowy branches, into an azure stream”, said Ludwig to Vincent.
“yes, my friend Ludwig, my nightmares aren’t raucous, but silent”, murmured Vincent.
“a desolate silence”, Ludwig breathed.
“loneliness”, whispered Vincent.
“loneliness”.
“The Potato Eaters” by Vincent Van Gogh
11.
Vincent and Ludwig #11
“my dear Vincent”, breathes a pensive Ludwig.
“have you found any work as yet. I ask it rhetorically because I know the answer”
Vincent smiles, “your wit hasn’t forsaken you, my friend. Do you know that they call me a “Van Gogh-wannabe”, and I try but always in vain to explain to them that I am a van Gogh, to which the kindly people look at each other and say”,
“and look he even ‘looks’ a bit like Vincent van Gogh and the charlatan even dresses like the great artist himself. The cheek of it”
Vincent laughs as Ludwig shakes his head in what seems to be utter astonishment.
“but my dear Vincent, that’s exactly what they accuse me of being – ‘a Beethoven clone’ – alas my friend, what lesson can we learn from these bizarre happenings?”
Vincent smiles, tugging at his phantom ear,
” they barely acknowledged us as human beings during our times, my dear Ludwig, and in 2015 they accuse us of masquerading as the ‘great’ ‘genius’ ‘incomparable’ Ludwig van Beethoven and Vincent van Gogh”.
Ludwig laughs heartily and sings lines of a song Vincent thinks sounds strangely familiar…
‘… this world was never meant for one as beautiful as you…”*.
*Lyrics from Don McLean’s song “Vincent”.
“Für Elise” by Ludwig van Beethoven sheet music from google
12.
Vincent and Ludwig #12
“Your ‘Sunflowers’ evokes the beauty of a sublime sonata to my deaf ears, my dear Vincent”,
“Ah! but you do hear! You hear the passions that torment my soul, my dear friend Ludwig”,
“And you paint in the colours of my dreams, Vincent, where I am alone in a field of sunflowers, as the moonlight caresses each tender stem”,
“Yes, Ludwig! Just as your ‘Moonlight Sonata’ moves me to tears, the tears that you see as delicate drops of dew on the sunflowers of your dreams”,
“Sunflowers bathed in soft moonlight”, smiles Ludwig,
“Oh yes, that same canvas of night that sways to the delicate touch of your music”, Vincent says with a wink.
Ludwig smiles again, as Vincent laughs a hearty laugh.
Beethoven Symphony 9 sheet music from google “Sunflowers” by Vincent van Gogh
minutes merge into tears, spilling from eyes dimmed by the years, lost in the blurred fog that never clears, screaming out silently so no one hears,
the tormented cries of a man lost and broken, shredding scribbled rhymes never to be spoken, amidst the charade, nothing but a mere token, baring his heart, nakedly open,
to wander these slippery streets alone, far from the promises set in stone, cut deep, the wound stinging down to the bone, yet still searching for the means to atone,
after all these years swirling down the drain, the rough taste insipid and plain, whistling a bygone dreary refrain, always first at the station, yet always the one to miss the last train,
setting off on a journey, seeking redemption for the lies, tearing at the shackles, twisting a lifelong of severed ties, to that place where sorrow eventually dies, away from the deafening deluge of hollow cries,
where peaceful waters gently flow, where the pace of breathing is soothingly slow, where lush green meadows grow, where anything is possible, where feelings are malleable as dough,
at last reaching that hallowed space, where misery evaporates without a trace, to finally feel a belonging, a bond to a place, to no longer be ashamed to wear this same old face,
to lose oneself beneath the brightest skies of blue, with you by my side, feeling my only wish coming true, tasting the freshness of the early morning dew, at peace, finally, in a haven built for me and for you …
through half-dreamed emotions, the tears and the laughter of years in between, find their way back to settle in our souls, to coax hope out of despair, to try to keep it all together, as we get on by.
nothing fills the void of restless desolation, more than memories floating on the wind, dandelion seeds scattered hither and thither, seeing at last the impermanence of this fragile life, as we get on by.
hidden in the folds of joy and of sorrow, fate often flits past, its brushstrokes lingering on the mosaic of our lives, leaving traces of colour, as we get on by.
the hammer of time bangs incessantly on, as we walk, as we talk, as we love, and as we dance in the spring rains, not a care in the world for those fleeting moments, and though we travel, we get on by.
we stare at our reflections in the mirror, age carving lines on our worn faces, where did all those years go, trickling down the sieve of time, leaving us to walk on, as we get on by.
looking back through the willowy mist, we all share our pocketful of regrets, things we could have said, things that should have remained unsaid, dreams unfulfilled, knocking on the door, urging us to let them in, and it may just be, that in those moments, we clutch onto hope,
bunking classes in school, trying too hard to seem too cool.
those lazy humid summer days, nodding off on the bus ride home, with Delhi feeling like a greenhouse dome.
shedding our school bags, racing to round up the friends, the 40° heat never even an afterthought, batting and bowling in our small park, till bad-light caused us to gather in the dark.
my buddy and i, singing Beatles’ songs loud enough for the two girls we had crushes on, “Can’t buy me Love” belted out till we were hoarse, surviving the glaring looks of the disapproving grannies of course.
those were the days, of cycling to the cinema, to watch “Sholay” for the umpteenth time, sitting in the 2-rupee seats right in front, rattling off the dialogue line by line.
racing back home to catch a few songs on “Chitrahaar”, sitting up close to our ancient black and white telly, the picture quality akin to snow, not that it mattered, this was after all our most coveted tv show.
getting our ears clipped at times for coming home late, the joyful sounds of laughter from our friends who were en-route home to a similar fate.
lighting clay diyas as Diwali approached, stuffing our faces with malaai burfi from “Bengal Sweet House”, downing sweet lassis as autumn upon summer encroached.
“borrowing” friends’ dad’s scooters, the wind in our hair, inhaling the pollution without any care, off to Connaught Place for an ice-cream at Nirulas, and to stock up on our filmi music cassettes from the ever smiling Sikh man at Palika Bazaar, till we emerged above ground, each of us smelling like an incense shop from afar.
stopping off in Defence Colony, to savour some gol-gappas and ganne-ka-ras, the only word never uttered those days was “bas”.
gliding down the streets of our colony, as if we were kings, with the brash swagger that being a teenager brings.
enjoying the Diwali nights, friends exchanging sweetmeats, as Delhi resounded with firecrackers and rocket streaked skies, having our fill of never-ending chais.
winter came along with its polluted fog blanketing the freezing early morn, our pleas of “only 5 minutes more” falling on deaf ears as from our warm beds we were torn.
when spring hopped along, we waited for Holi, to sing countless a filmi-song, with our pichkaaris, and water-filled balloons, aiming at all, giggling like buffoons.
if nostalgia is a seductive liar, as I somewhere once read, then allow me to be seduced, again and again, after all these years and all these miles that have been tread.
to be taken back to the Delhi of yesteryear, ignites a fierce passion, and I crave a coconut dipped syrupy meethha paan,
for after all these years inbetween here and there,
it’ll always be “meri Dilli, meri jaan”
____________
Glossary:
“Sholay” – A popular Bollywood film of the 1970s.
“Chitrahaar” – A musical television show.
“Diyas” – small earthen lamps lit during Diwali.
“Diwali” – the festival of light.
“Malaai Burfi” – A popular sweetmeat.
“Lassi” – A popular yoghurty drink.
“Connaught Place” – the centre of New Delhi.
“Palika Bazaar” – An underground shopping complex in Connaught Place.
“Nirulas” – A popular fast food restaurant.
“Gol-gappas” – A popular fast food
“Ganne-ka-ras” – Sugarcane juice.
“Defence Colony” – A suburb of New Delhi.
“Bas” – A Hindi word meaning ‘enough’.
“Chai” – Tea
“Holi” – the festival of colours, heralding the arrival of spring.
“Pichkaari” – A toy like device to spray water. Commonly used on Holi.
“Meetha Paan” – sweet Betel leaf filled with syrup and other fragrant spices.
“Meri Dilli, Meri Jaan” – literally meaning ‘my Delhi, my life”
empty bottles, discarded cartons, garbage bins,
littered with fragmented shards of myself,
shed, left behind,
amidst the haze of memory, strewn, deafened by the cacophony of hollow tins,
tossed away pieces of who i was, of who i am, of who i ought to be,
ever trying to belong, to fit in,
to touch, to be touched, to be seen, to be able to see.
so i moult, a deceptive social chameleon,
slimy,
deceitful,
charming,
soulless,
smiling,
barren,
casually dumping tattered emotions,
flung aside here,
bits of that old life,
that in the blurry mist swirls,
leaving laughter, streaks of tears down drain hugging boulevards,
of platinum and of pearls,
trashed alongside crushed petals,
as numbed frigid night unfurls.
this immigrant skin,
this malleable face,
my numberless, incomprehensible masks staring back,
a mishmash, a grotesque mosaic,
shadows of yesteryears faces,
worn and torn,
ever straining to break flee,
of this relentless restlessness that gnaws,
teetering on tightropes,
clutching on filaments of hope,
hope,
yes, hope,
hope that i may once again walk free,
all the while searching to find, what i have become,
why do tears fall from broken eyes,
in blinding times of the lies of the wise,
when spurious tongues dribble and drool,
deeply enmeshed in the cesspool,
of me myself and i.
when hunger is leased,
venom slips through unleashed,
me myself and i,
as the scavenging resumes,
its shut-up,
bicycle rides to ancient tombs, stealthily traversing the bygone years,
those days and nights of delhi long ago, plucked heartstrings, a sitar being tuned, the cricket matches in the park, fetching the ball from monuments to long dead sultans, and rajah’s,
feasting on a masala-dosa, my bike chained to the rusty pole next to the paan-wallah,
downing numberless cups of cardamom chai, in between home and school, bunking classes to catch Madhuri’s “ek doh teen” song in a bollywood flick, sitting amongst the people, singing along in days and nights that used to be so full, so long,
now just a fading memory, of diwalis at the kumars, and eid feasts at home, intermingling with splashes of holi colour,
a synthesis of cultures, of faiths, of friends transcending caste and creed,
a delhite whistling beatles’ songs,
ah yes, nostalgia that sly deceiver,
be mine again, come to me in rain-swept monsoon nights, lit by a million diyas of softly flickering lights,
The deadened eyes scream, lashing out at our mute consciences, the numbed faces cry out, tearing at our complicit deafness, the streaming tears slice deep, slitting our accursed inaction, the haunting faces of human suffering, tearing at our indifference, the wailing children remind us, of a real evil that stalks this world.
The peacemakers, the nobel laureates, the impotent powers that be, turn the other way, sewing their eyes shut, feigning not to see,
the misery that stalks the Rohingya, each brutal night, and every horrific day.
Where are the howls of protest, Where are the voices of indignation? Where are all of us, staring at this festering wound, septic and dripping with pus?
We live in a world of wretched hypocrisy, where pain and suffering abominably leers, as we turn our heads, neglecting genocide, unless it happens to ‘our’ people, and not to ‘theirs’.
The Rohingya stare deep into each and every soul, their eyes tunnelling into our inert shame, while we argue passionately about the results of last night’s football game.
We are complicit, all of us to a person, having failed to be human once more, stuttering words like these that I write, while into flesh unspeakable horrors tear and tore.
We are nothing, all of us, we are no longer human, as we drink and eat merrily, basking in our own closeted cells, while tears of mothers, of fathers, of sons and of daughters, overflows reeking wells.
Where are the good people of this world, where are the voices so loud to proclaim, where are the obscenely wealthy countries, cowardly silent, as an entire people are brutalised, and savaged till they sink to their blistered knees.
The poet Erich Fried, who endured the savagery of the Nazis, wrote this …
” it happened, it happens, and it will go on happening, unless something is done to stop it from happening “.
It is happening now. It will continue to happen, unless something is done to stop it from happening.
Scribbled Verse 
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