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expensive paintings on the wall
priceless comes to mind
you browse
without touching
lean in to read the small card
bottom right
Artist Title Date
search for the story
told inside the frame
hear echoes
of syncopated footsteps
nervous cough stabbing
the tense silence
and your beating heart
like something out of Poe
the presence of
anonymous
circulating beings
closing in
and in particular
the one standing
behind you craning
to get a view
begin to feel slightly nauseous
paranoid
the uniformed security guard
in the corner
trying to look inconspicuous
and you try
to go about your business
but it's no use
you've been trying
and trying
but just don't get it
and you need to sit down
you're exhausted
depleted
deflated
you look around
don't understand
can no longer feign interest
and she suspects
as you do
that you don't belong
you're a phony
inauthentic
unoriginal
worthless comes to mind
and you must leave
or risk
making a scene.
3 comments:
This poem feels beige and brown; depressing for the poet, which I suppose is the intent. The museum doesn’t feel alive (again, intent?) and the poetic slide into the walls closing in can be felt by the reader. Narrator wants to get out of the museum, so does the reader. The narrator’s sense of low worth is painful to read. On first reading the poem doesn’t seem like much; it requires several readings to appreciate its meaning.
Exactly! Never felt depressed in a fine arts museum? Overwhelmed and exhausted? I have. There is something oppressive about museums.
Lots of great "hidden" rhymes and echoes. Almost like they are echoing in the halls of the museum. I love the devolution from "priceless" to "worthless" ... the priceless artwork ultimately makes the poet feel worthless. It's the opposite of what art is supposed to do.
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