I stand, cold.
ice white, lit bright by
delicate light
High above casting
block shadows basking
art in light.
I step front faced with
Monet ahead, to right, gaugin
I stare, Rembrant, clad in
thick frames reflecting
scant expression on the face
of art on art, tête-à-tête
I am wisps of turner set
in stone and city galleries
staring back into the old disease
of oil eyes meeting mine
receding grid tiles on floor, axis legs
axis, human waxes indifferable
from porcelain busts in clear boxes -
bowels of heart and lungs
quivering on canvas, draped
hastily on white walls
Cold light, turned down, reflecting
frame, but not the painting.
This poem describes Stendhal syndrome, or the out of body experience felt when seeing a great work of art.
