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.

2 comments:

  1. 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.

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

    ReplyDelete