Thursday, February 6, 2014

Afternoon at the museum

He sits, stares at a single painting
in the afternoon, rather abstract,
neo-abstract, perhaps neo-realist
or post something, he doesn’t know
but it doesn’t matter, the painting
and its moment, the painting
in its moment is what matters
to him, speaks to him, he doesn’t
understand why but he’s beyond
understanding, beyond veneration,
having arrived at veneration,
the painting is an icon, he thinks,
the painting should be carried
properly by priests in cassocks
and belts of rope, priests
with long beards, as they carry
the icon flanked by acolytes
with candles down the steps
to Fifth Avenue and turn south. 

Painting: September, oil on canvas by Gerhard Richter (2005), Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.


Maureen said...

The image of that Richter painting stops me every time I see it.

I like how you ended the poem: simply, knowing you need add nothing more.

Anonymous said...

an image of
reflected feelings
time layered
cold as ice
the scraping
blades of skaters
until memory sees
no known image