Bart Van Roy — BAVARO · Written beside the paint

Poems

Poems by Bart Van Roy — BAVARO, written as intrinsic parts of the paintings they accompany.

Red-Eyed Self Portrait

Poem by Bart Van Roy — BAVARO. The painting and poem form a single work of art.

Beneath these strokes, I buried me, not gently, but in strain A face undone, refused to be, and pressed beneath the stain I dragged the dark across my skin, with remnants of the day each layer meant to silence him, and keep his form away An eye broke through what I had sealed. I brought it back with paint And there it burned, now red, unhealed, no longer held by restraint It pulled my hand and made me see It would not disappear. I read the painting and stopped. The rest is yours to see....

The Lottery of Inner Beauty

Poem by Bart Van Roy — BAVARO. The painting and poem form a single work of art.

Beneath the layers, deep within A light that shines, so pure so thin. In this life’s art, two paintings lie, One above, one hidden by. Outer beauty fades away, Peeling back to what does stay. A heart that beats with tender care, A soul that loves, beyond compare. When looks align with what’s inside, In this truth let joy abide. For when the outer and inner gleam, Reflect the same, a perfect dream... Consider then, in life’s grand play, You’ve won the lottery, come what may. Not with wealth or fleeting fame, but with a heart that’s true, a name. In every smile, in every tear, Inner beauty, crystal clear.

The Drummer.

Poem by Bart Van Roy — BAVARO. The painting and poem form a single work of art.

In a meadow stitched together by neon and hum, A drummer listens to the echoing thrum. Talented hands, as quick as sparks, Weaving rhythms through midnight’s dark. He plays before the restless crowd while the rest of the country lies asleep, Claiming Werchter’s stage - its glory his to keep. His arms a flurry, the audience a swelling sea, At last, he stands above it all, no longer unseen and finally free. The band is Extreme, and he keeps the beat, Cymbals and toms - his rhythm complete. In his dream, he's playing with flawless skill, Matching Paul Geary - precision and thrill. Each bass drum and snare - percussion divine, Keeping time with legends, beating in rhyme. The lights are dazzling, hearts soar and pound, Every beat a victory, every measure profound. But dawn intrudes on his fevered trance, The festival fades, the crowd’s last dance. As morning breaks, echoes of raging still linger, The thunder of the mosh pit, wild and eager. Stage diving memories flicker and crash - A fantastic Werchter festival, gone in a flash. Daylight creeps in, the music subsides, He slips from the dream as the festival hides. He wakes to the silence - his drumsticks by his bed, The echo of cheers replaced by calm instead. No banners ripple, no wild hands reach for the sky, Only golden light pouring in from on high. The echo of cheers recedes to a memory’s shore, Where phantom spotlights sweep the dream -bedrooms floor. Gone is the fever, the surge of the crowd’s tide - Yet in the hush, something restless abides. No music, no fans, no thunderous calls, But hope stirs gently as morning falls. And hope is a rhythm you carry inside, A pulse in the chest, impossible to hide. Though fame may wander, and stages may shift, New talents within him begin to lift. A painter’s vision, a poet’s song - So many gifts where he might belong. He smiles at the sun, lets go of regret - For life is a canvas not finished yet. So, play your part boldly, let passions ignite, New kinds of glory may bloom overnight. And even if stages grow distant or fame takes too long, There’s always fresh beauty - so life’s show must go on. And remember, the first step in any new dawn, Is to cherish your heart when the world marches on. Nurture your courage and tend to your spark, Never let shadows make your ambitions go dark. So, stand in amazement, unafraid to belong - This is your journey, your art, your voice, your song.

Vilvoorde

Poem by Bart Van Roy — BAVARO. The painting and poem form a single work of art.

In Vilvoorde where industrial chimneys once wrote black alphabets in the sky - day and night, The factory breath eclipsed the light. The cokes factory sang its hymn so dark and bold, Soot descended in gentle rings, on shoulders young and old. On window ledges, whispers rest – where crimson blooms have grown – Geraniums, in soot-dressed vests, tried to defy city’s tone. Against the grey they strived for red, their petals brave and bright, A stubborn hope that’s softly spread and further glowed into the night. High gains emerged while nature wept, A heavy price that “progress” kept. The profits soared, the cost was vast – Such is the tale of fortunes amassed. In shiny towers, greed confessed, It was capitalism at its best. In rolled the cars, a French parade, With wheels for dreams they swiftly made, But silence parked where engines roared, More than three thousand hands were soon ignored. Wheels spun out, but none remain, Just an empty parking lot, and silent rain. Misery local, gains elsewhere, The French big boss signed the collective resignation without care. Painters shaped from smoke and mist Poets captured what could not be missed. And sculptor Rik POOT forged defiance, He not only made horses of steel, but also an iron fist in workers alliance. Upon these streets the story ran, of the first commercial TV network in Belgium, lighting dreams of the common man. Screens flashed brightly, with laughter and cheers, They were modelling the new BV’s here. While city life busted, pressed on through the night, Broadcasts spun wonders in soft glowing light. As an instant success, a chapter of change had begun. A lively new rival for the State’s Channel One. Meanwhile high above the city a grand bridge stands, Its arches bold, spanning the land. The “Brusselse Ring” stretches across the sky, Linking distant dreams as the world rushes by. So above the rooftops, the old bridge lies, Spanning the canal under now open skies. Its shadows stretches, broad and grand, Across the city that takes a stand. Refusing to ever bow, the city still stands proud. Dreaming of tomorrow, wrapped in a golden cloud. Beneath the old bridge, where new ventures gleam, Real estate projects revive hope and dream, Newcomers gather, drawn by promise and light, Chasing futures, hearts feathered and bright. And art lifts the city, turns the flame, Beneath the bridge, the canal, the statues, the frame. Vilvoorde itself becomes one living canvas that must be seen, Geometric, resilient, and fiercely alive, more than it has ever been. So Vilvoorde rises, night to noon – Unyielding, alive, and relentless: Soon. ***