Spring, 1889 Edvard Munch
The winter winds have paved the way for spring.
It is now time to open the windows, To change the stale air and hear the birds sing. Like sails, the white curtains the soft wind blows.
Silently she sits staring into space,
As her mind tries to remember the past, While the sun’s warmth falls upon her pale face. Blank without expression she is downcast.
To the question she can find no answer.
So weak is she her soft voice does not speak. Will there be joy for her in the future, Or like foretime and today one that’s bleak?
The birds went silent, her arms by her side,
There’ll be no tomorrow for she has died.
Evening, Edvard Munch (1888) Evening
A time between the bright heat of the sun
And the cool darkened shadows of the moon
A time to consider what has been done
And what’s to be accomplished very soon
It is not a time for melancholy
Nor to be consumed by fanciful dreams
As both will lead to dangerous folly
Creating vicious pain from mental screams
Evening is not a time to hesitate
For the eyes will begin to get heavy
The mind soon unable to contemplate
Important to plan the future wisely
Two Human Beings, Edvard Munch (1896) Love or Loneliness
Which am I to choose?
Each providing great rewards.
Either way I lose!
If love be my fate,
I must share with another.
All else needs to wait!
If art is my life,
My mind free to ever roam.
Loneliness is rife!
Both have equal urge.
Love and art can’t coexist.
One I must now purge!
Art to be my choice.
Love can be ephemeral,
While art gives me voice!
The Girl by the Window, Edvard Munch (1893) The Girl by the Window
The full moon is high in the sky.
There is calm at this time of night,
Yet I’m not, I am sure the why.
For my body is wrought with fear!
Was told that fear I must control,
My life as is brings early death.
For reason I can’t meet my goal,
Will I soon take my final breath?
In the earth will that be the end?
May be better than current fate.
If soon my life I cannot mend,
When exactly is it too late?
Shall I just crawl back to my bed,
To simply wait for death to come?
But if there’s truth I have a soul,
Better I kneel, begin to pray,
To gain faith I’m willing to toil,
That time ’till end I can delay.
Is it correct for what I ask?
Not knowing what is best for me,
Is truly life’s most daunting task.
What ought to be done to be free?
Jealousy, Edvard Munch (1913) Jealousy
A fit of rage has come over me
What is going on I can see
It is here before my very eyes
Of course she would deny
That she flirts with another guy
Look at the smirk on his face
In her heart me he wants to replace
What is it that makes me shake
Is it anger or is it fear
When he and she are so near
Did I not win her with my charm
Now she does me mental harm
Turning into a timid little mouse
Feeling sickly and insecure
Not knowing if I can endure
Here I languish as a fool
My courage now minuscule
Confused without confidence
In this hell I will always be
For I am a victim of my jealousy
At the Roulette Table in Monte Carlo, Edvard Munch (1892) At the Roulette Table
For all, life is but a game of roulette
Every decision we make is a chance
Sometimes we’re hesitant to place a bet
Especially when it comes to romance
With every spin the outcome is unknown
Romance is always a game of what-if
Often the choice made by testosterone
That easily points to the nearest cliff
But what if we only stand by and watch
To smile gleefully at others’ great joy
Thinking of the chances, theirs we could match
Or the opposite, us, it could destroy
It’s now time to place our bet, red or black
Quick, once placed there will be no turning back
Train Smoke, Edvard Munch (1900) Train Smoke
Life is like a train ride, from birth to death.
We all know our final destination,
Yet there can be solace along the way.
The train makes many stops on its journey,
For its passengers to gather postcards,
And bright stickers to place on their baggage
I see many babies coming aboard,
Held so securely, in their mothers’ arms
With no understanding of the event
At stops, relatives and friends disembark.
Some wave joyfully as the train departs,
Others trodden off, all I see are backs.
I look at my disheveled bag, and smile,
There is not anymore room for stickers,
Then I close my eyes, to see my postcards.
Awakened, I feel the train slowing down.
It makes a grinding, screeching, ugly sound.
Oh, this is my stop, I must now get off!