Van Gogh first found me when I was in love,

completely and utterly like love-birds and doves.

Sparked by a hand print into wet plaster,

a compliment drifted by my ear and made my heart beat faster.

I guess it was like Ghost without all the pottery,

he clasped my hand and I won the lottery.

My potential new teacher of all things artistic,

the Oxytocin shot through me going ballistic.

I was impulsive and just didn’t care,

my Sixth Form was chosen that second right there.

I went home from that taster day feeling lighter than air,

remembering his eyes and long swishing hair.

Soon September came and I needed my courage,

to go for my goals like Daniel Sturridge.

My school bag packed I boarded the bus,

and hid my face from the public to avoid any fuss.

The scenery whizzed past and I started to frown,

as I lost all recognition of my hometown.

Then with a grind and a clunk the bus came to a stop,

it just gave up chugging and we all had to hop off.

To the driver I enquired where is my college,

of wherever I was I had no knowledge.

It turns out we’d sped past it when I wasn’t looking,

the nerves and the panic in my tummy were cooking.

I was stuck there stranded on the wrong side of town,

a bus going the right way nowhere to be found.

So I used the road signs to plan my navigation,

to hopefully get me back to the bus station.

I was doing okay until I took a wrong turn,

complex directions I found quite hard to learn.

Luckily I stumbled upon a welcome sight,

a handy phone box that could end my plight.

I fumbled for coins and rang my mum,

she whizzed out of work to rescue my bum.

We got to my college and explained at reception,

classmates were in form but I was the exception.

I nervously crept towards the art room,

butterflies in my stomach and my heart going boom.

When I walked through the door there was one empty seat,

my art teacher’s face was wonderful to greet.

I sat next to him and though my pride was dented,

being so close to his body my adoration cemented.

In a future art lesson he complimented my dress,

of all the things that made college he was the best.

He had a wonderful way of sneaking up like a cat,

a tingle on my neck and a ‘I really like that’.

For one of our briefs I painted a selfie

in a seductive pose I thought he might find sexy.

One day with my fashion I risked ridicule,

‘I wear bunny ears now, bunny ears are cool’.

During my distracted artistic experimentation,

we had to choose an artist to get our dedication.

Vincent Van Gogh was the artist I chose,

I studied his blue, orange, yellow and rose.

I painted a copy of Wheatfield With Crows and was naively proud,

when I chose deep reds and purples instead of black for the avian crowd.

My art teacher stood behind me admiring,

his praise always left me lovelorn and sighing.

That art a.s. level year was a romantic fairytale,

then one fateful day the sunshine turned to hail.

For he didn’t return to us after the summer,

no explanation given life was suddenly glummer.

He’d disappeared and ended my teen romance story,

he’d left the building and I’d lost my Rory.

My new art teacher only berated,

every effort I made she always hated.

So very soon I’d dropped out of art,

with confidence lost and a broken heart.

For many years I’ve thought my art’s not good enough,

I’d tear up my pictures and storm off in a huff.

It took me a long time to learn that my unique vision,

should play a major part in my artistic decisions.

What links up my story with Vincent and the Doctor is that I can’t find the words,

to sum up all the beauty just with letters is absurd.

At college we had to write an essay about Vincent,

but I just could not think of anything descriptive and convincing.

Writer’s block prompts my very grumpy rants,

I’m much better at pictures and interpretive dance.

But I love my WhovianNet challenge and want to review,

my favourite episode of Doctor Who.

Vincent’s art just came alive with the set design,

and all of his emotions translated into mine.

I loved it when the Doctor walked right into the painting,

of Vincent’s bedroom when the Krafayis was awaiting.

Amy looked so beautiful amongst all of the sunflowers,

and I related to the distress of Vincent’s despairing glowers.

The scene of Starry Night brought on floods of tears,

of seeing things so differently to me that is so real.

Vincent being overwhelmed by Bill Nighy’s ardent praise,

who then received the thank you from those far off yesterdays.

The good bits and the bad bits to Amy reassured,

a signature to show how much she was adored.

I’d like to give the cast and crew my enormous admiration,

and lots of love to Tony Curran for his exquisite characterization.

Van Gogh has been there to witness my heightened emotions,

my paintings and passions and unbridled devotions.

Thank you Vincent for your beautiful soul,

and for having the fire to be so bright and so bold.

Editorial written by Helen Beeston