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Mealtime: A Prose Poem (an ekphrastic poem)

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eileenonguam:
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.

daisyxo:
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

witt:
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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