Tate Modern

I walk into the large white box.
Some young people look cool,
others just take the piss,
some students appear informed, anguished even, intelligent,
others merely shake their heads.
I study Wine Crucifix, Arnulf Rainer.
Some old ladies stand there straight and tilt their heads,
others lean in closer, in wistful passivity.
A large group of children are lead to Jackson Pollock, Summertime 9a.
Some are expressionless, dismissive and uncomfortable,
others speak of images I cannot recognise, only one gets it.
A well-dressed man, American perhaps, is ambivalent,
a half-dressed girl is beautiful, and knows it,
others are imprisoned in their ugliness.
Cy Twombly’s Quattro Stagione beguiles me completely,
like Mucha posters in the rain.
Some tourists read the captions, inquisitive and scratch their chins,
others, Japanese, leave reverentially but return for yet another look.
La femme et son Poisson, Man Ray shimmers,
both lithe, both swim, both dream.
A small group do not look, but look at each other,
some are tired, blow out their cheeks, vacant,
others sympathetically recoil, feel conned.
I puzzle at Brague and fall in love with Metzinger’s
La femme a la Cafetiere, sensual, ovoid, warm.
Some schoolgirls look like schoolgirls, are schoolgirls
others wish not to be at school,
some clutch books for authenticity, I should be here,
others leave hurriedly, reluctant to stay.
Everyone notices the crack across the floor.

© Graham Sherwood 2008