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Mealtime: A Prose Poem (an ekphrastic poem)


On a Monday evening in April, I ponder Van Gogh�s �The Potato Eaters� as they, in their dark hovel of a home, ponder a platter of potatoes.  Their eyes glaze over at this monotonous meal of plain, peeled boiled potatoes eaten morning, midday, evening; washed down with mugs of warm ale.  When they sleep, the peasants will dream of a red-headed, bearded man painting joyously in the brilliant sun, where he has come out of the dark into a rainbow of colors.  Though he will live in a yellow house, they know he will remember them, that he once lived among them in his own bleak hovel and painted them lovingly in their humble home eating potatoes.

quite an interesting thought - to be painted as a remembrance.  The yellow house is cool - sounds like a great title for a poem of its own.

Eileen Benavente-Blas:
Thanks, Daisy. I agree about the yellow house as a poem too. :kool

I enjoyed this piece. Well done. I remember years ago, I had my students write a paragraph on this same painting. Hmmmm. They didn't do quite as well as you.  wink*


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