the Louvre

this is a simple poem I scrawled while in the French Paintings room:

The Louvre

Shoe soles squeak

on the flawless, polished marble floor.

I hear the enthusiastic voice of a tour guide

in the next room.

Her delicious French words tumble over one another,

so anxious to fill the room.

She loves this art.

I see the faces of the visitors;

she has invited them,

now they love it too.

They are one with wonder.

The wide, ornate golden frames fill the walls;

presenting their rich innards with pride.

They seem to want to push the paintings out,

into the room,

onto me.

Golden guardians of history,

you are so unlike anything in my life.

Yet I am here with you,

and you forgive my ignorance.

I am an arrogant American

more interested in art that can be put on a t-shirt.

Campbells soup cans and neon light shows -

art that screams

Feminism!

Conflict!

Politics!

But you offer your gift

silently,

patiently,

and I see that these heavy oil paintings

ARE war

ARE women

ARE government and philosophy.

They reflect another life

where pomp and social grace

were an ornate disguise for the same old fears.

Rolls of lemon fabric cover, but barely hide,

the same body;

the same breasts,

the same round belly,

the same need for love.

There is magic in this place,

as if the universe begins here

on these frozen, two dimensional faces.

I cradle my awe secretly.

Something just gave birth inside me

and now it is growing.

With humility,

for once,

I am grateful to be alone.