First Impressions, for Vincent

I am trying to recall the nameof that eccentric, incoherent vagabond
who used to trudge these country roads Trying to sell his so called paintings.To our respected fellowsTo those of us who can afford to cherish art,To we who know the actual value of thingsHe invariably upset our apple-cartsJust observe this oneSee these wild erratic strokes-I tell you - the man was an utter joke !A dog's breakfast of a fellow-See these dubious dabs- such slovenly swoops of colourA strangely mixed up palette-like no otherEven his own brother- had almost had enough of him- for he was always begging moneyFor brushes and paints-and alcohol no doubt-I tell you he was a vagabond- certainly no saint-No it's not funny-Quite prudently we decided not to let him in-We had to keep him outYou can't encourage such a chap-you just don't know where he's been-You might catch something off him-perhaps an infection-I mean,Hence no wonder -he should suffer our rejection-Now have a look here-Note these overly rich wildly textured strokesToo much for my eyes,it makes one chokeSee here the acute contrast the intense chiaroscurothe interplay of dark and lightAnd shadowOn some low class peasants eating potatoIt truly gives me a fright-I tell you-It's just too much for my sight !!

And here a golden- yellow wheatfield-Note the deranged  dance of dashing colour-And  some detestable crowsIs it the erratic passion of an overgrown child

A madman perhaps- who knows ?
Not a friend of ours of course

But just an eccentric, penniless incoherent stammering beggar who trudged these country roads-Attempting  to sell his so called "art". His manners always coarse-Invariably he upset our applecart-and even frightened off  the horse!-His presence was not well received,The wife gave him some sandwiches onceAnd a few cups of tea-In return he gave us one that was okay I suppose-I gave it to my daughter-Who donated it to the vicar for the church bazaar-Who sold it to mad Aunt RoseIt was okay- but quite bizarre,Any claim to talent was not to be believed-We didn't think he'd go very far-The galleries did not want him eitherHe was not well receivedQuite mad of course, we bade him go,But it seemed he did not hear us clearI noted that he seemed to lack one earI heard it rumoured that he gave it to a tart !! (Laughter) In my minds eye, I can stillsee him perpetually trudging down these endless  flat and dreary country roads,Along the canals conversing with the windmills-Preaching some babble to the peasants about some kingdom for the poor-This he ranted on and on about-Between frequent visits to the madhouseYes- He went there more and more His manner and dress scruffy and outlandishFew could understand him more than comprehend a fishAlways a pauper and full of improprietyHe was excluded from the local arts society But although in his time we regarded him a bumBeing dead- he has earned us quite a tidy sum.His name is on the tip of my tongue-What was it now ?Ah yes- Vincent -that's the one.! :)

This poem is about: 
Our world

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