Portland Art Museum
Dozens of children
(Wrong day to come?)
A short climb up marble stairs
A nominal fee($10)
Students of all ages
Local modern art
I round a corner and breath is lost
Art of the orient
Buddha
Shiva
Silk, wood, metal, and stone
Fingers itch, wanting to touch
Ancient art frozen behind glass, safe in it's controlled climate.
Up a filght of stairs, wishing for a pen, for paper, to write, to create among the created.
Paintings. Oils. Impressionist.
Through a door, silver...shiny...fingers itching once again.
I grasp the cuffs of my sweatshirt to keep from reaching out.
My sigh echos across the empty room.
Around a corner, Greece.
Through a door, the Pacific Northwest.
Dodging small children engrossed in the lessons of culture.
'Paintings tell a story. What story do you see?'
Mount Hood.
The Madonna.
A flight of stairs.
Native American art.
Wood.
Wool.
Beads.
Shoes squeaking noticably in the occasional silence.
Fingers twitch.
Wish for pen.
More stairs.
Chairs.
An installation piece.
Odd.
Shoes still squeak.
Down four floors.
The same artist on every landing.
Lower level.
Modern art.
I raise an eyebrow, shake my head.
Back to the main level.
Membership desk.
Tour is over.
Feeling complete.
Ready to go.
Gift shop....Dozens of pens.
A wry smile.
Departure.
posted by TealSwann at
3:51 PM
1 Comments:
Love this poem!
I know the Portland Art Museum, having lived on the west coast fera spell ~ but really what came to mind when I read it was the Chicago Museum of Natural History. Funny how such an experience can be shared across the continent. And the feeling of wanting to touch, of wanting to write - those yearnings - and the irony of a gift shop, where there is the pen, and all you can touch and buy to take home, and not wanting it then...beautiful. Thank you for sharing this!
By
dhill, at 9:22 AM
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