Vincent Van Gogh 14 - Cousin Kay Poem by Geeta Radhakrishna Menon

When Vincent visited Reverend Stricker's house
For the first time, for Sunday dinner,
He was warmly greeted by his aunt Wilhelmina.
He was surprised to meet his cousin Kay as well.
Kay, a tall young woman, greeted Vincent:
' I am your cousin Kay' she said,
As she stretched her hands for a warm hand shake.
Though they were first cousins, they had not met each other before.

Vincent was now twenty-four years old,
While cousin Kay was twenty-six years old.
He was no more a ‘country boor' as Ursula had called him.
It was important that he appeared as a polished gentleman.
As he sat on the edge of the chair, he noticed that his
Cousin Kay had fine, chiselled features, with deep blue eyes.
She was a blonde too - a subtle mixture of yellow and red hair.
Vincent was curiously attracted to this young woman.

With a soft but firm tone, Vincent spoke to Kay:
'Rembrandt would have liked to paint you! '.
Kay replied with a counter question:
'Rembrandt only liked to paint ugly old women, didn't he?
‘No, ' replied Vincent. ‘He painted beautiful old women,
Women who were poor or in some way unhappy,
But who through sorrow had gained a soul.'
Kay was surprised by his answer and scrutinized his face in detail.

Kay noticed the high, symmetrical forehead of the Van Goghs,
And the uncrushable chin, stuck slightly out toward her.
‘Forgive me for being stupid', she murmured:
‘I understand what you mean about Rembrandt'.
Meanwhile, a slim man with a smile and charming manner
Entered the room. Kay rose and kissed him eagerly.
‘Cousin Vincent, ' she said, this is my husband, Mijnheer Vos.
Soon, a little, vivacious child with blue eyes of his mother, joined them.

When Vincent saw his cousin Kay filled with love and happiness,
A joyous family clinging together with unity and much affection,
His memory of losing Ursula resurfaced and emerged with fresh waves
Of sorrow that engulfed and disturbed his whole being.
Vincent was always thirsting for affection,
And hungry for love.
But the more and more he longed for it,
The more it deluded and disheartened him.

A Biographical Poem