Vincent Van Gogh 83 - Margot Begeman Poem by Geeta Radhakrishna Menon

Vincent immersed himself in painting
With an added zeal and vigour.
Colours attracted him immensely
The splash of colours in his paintings
Brought new rays of shimmering light.
'Painting is drawing in colour'
He wrote to his brother Theo.

When Vincent walked along the familiar roads of Brabant
With easel strapped on his back, wet canvas under his arm,
The curious people peeped out their windows,
Specially the inquisitive gaze of feminine eyes.
But Vincent was not bothered about these people.
As he continued painting in the fields,
He started sensing that someone was watching him.

As days passed, he had this uncanny feeling
That he was not only being watched but followed too.
He searched in the fields to find out who it could be
But he saw nothing, yet he was sure that someone
Was continuously, intensely scrutinizing his work.
It was only after two weeks he found a woman
Standing before a wagon and staring at him with awe.

Back home, Vincent enquired from his mother
About the neighbours who lived next to the parsonage.
They were the Begeman family, a mother with five daughters,
Their father died early, while all the daughters remained unmarried.
The next day, while Vincent painted feverishly, fully focused,
The woman appeared again, slowly walked towards Vincent
And stood beside him, looking at his painting with wonder.

She stood beside Vincent for a long time
Till he had completed his work.
When Vincent enquired of her name,
She could hardly speak, Her throat was parched.
With difficulty she muttered -‘Margot'.
'Why have you been following me, Margot Begeman?
I have known about it for several weeks.'

She looked at Vincent, with a soft cry, fell down.
Margot had fainted. Vincent went down on his knees,
Put his arm around her and looked at her face.
He sprinkled little water on her face.
When she opened her eyes, she saw a mystical man
With green blue eyes, so understanding and compassionate.
She flung her arms around his neck and buried her face in his beard.

A Biographical Poem