I have to crane my neck
the small coterie is pressed together.
The svelte tailored nose-whisperer
of a docent remarks:
“You have to see the hidden in the hidden.”
He is all neck and bowtie,
one eyebrow is raised
expecting us to know what he means.
Some nod, some wipe their eyeglasses
hoping to see the unseen more clearly.
I look up at the ceiling, it's a nice ceiling.
I am only here in this art gallery
because of the rain.
I try to take the painting in
from a larger point of view,
but there are backs
and back-packs,
there are slowly dripping rain hats.
Our guide is droning on,
going to a place
where a disjoined flower in a vase,
can be a post-revolutionary revelation
of something or other,
and obviously much, much more
than a few abstract blobs of color.
Tomorrow, I promise myself
to carry an umbrella.
The Docent
David J Walker
So this is heaven
I said to the no-name frame
Of a departed loved one guide
On a drive-by tour of a place
That can only be seen in
Dreams… for now
He smiled
But he was always smiling
No, it’s a she I thought
And she seems to be
Always smiling
Always with me
Saying nothing
But everything without words
Is this heaven
I asked
Is this the place made
Especially for me
She had no smile but
Only eyes that glowed
And the serine changed
To storms
Just before the dreams
Were dreamt
And no more
And no less
I must confess
I never knew her name
But
Just the same
She comes back to
Show me more
When I least expect it
While viewing a painting I liked by Paul Klee,
A docent-in-training came over to me.
Can I ask you some questions, if you wouldn’t mind,
About “Old Married Couple,” as she’d been assigned.
I told her the woman appeared to berate
Her husband, who seemed to accept this as fate.
His eyes, closed or downcast, displayed on his face
Resignation, as if he’d accepted his place.
The trainee, amused, didn’t say I was wrong
But her script sang a very much different-type song.
The husband was sleeping, the wife, sitting near,
Gazed with tenderness - how it was meant to appear.
I called to my husband to see what he thought
And he gave me the answer that I would have sought.
He agreed with my take, all the proof that we’d need
That we sure are an “old married couple” indeed.
They fired all the docents
In Chicago. This is why:
They’re mostly old white women,
Though they’re well-informed and spry.
They train for months and volunteer;
That’s right - they earn no pay,
But since they’re old white women,
They won’t be allowed to stay.
They mainly are retired
And, of course, a few are men,
But questions of diversity
Have cropped up once again.
So someone thought it would be wise,
Despite the years they’ve spent,
To replace the demographic
That they seem to represent.
In New York, I’m a docent
And an old white woman, too.
If my museum follows suit,
There’s not much I can do.
Not many notice I am in drag.
I was complicated,
what with the codes, and the hidden
secrets of last suppers.
In my day
you had to be circumspect,
my works were only
for a select few
like you. Yes you, the spotty nerd
with the horn-rim glasses
at the back of the group
ignoring the spiel of the docent.
One day you will
unravel my intentions,
I am not concerned.
Human nature needs
a strait path from here to there.
They ponder my smile
but it's the background
that is my self-portrait -
no wonder I smile this way.
Museums are quiet except
For crackling parquet floors,
Wooden squares, a game board:
Checkers or maybe chess
Of various right angle, grain striations.
Parallel to paintings in oil, red lines
Begin a court for pickup basketball.
But whether subjects of famous battles
Or romances between animals and gods,
They are stuck in a frozen frame moment
Like mammoths in some La Brea Art Pit
It is this instant we are to see anew
Each brush stroke, a wisp of hair,
A dab of white, a cloud condensing,
I lean close.
An unseen alarm makes a statue come alive,
A funerary, votive docent who guards
Mesopotamian and Egyptian antiquities.
She curses me in hieroglyphs translated
And dictated from an Old Kingdom tongue.
My crime: too close to art.
As if my admission, and apology
Were not punishment enough.
I could have cast my eyes
At strangers surrounding me.
Vatican visitors are permitted
To touch the Pieta statue for luck.
Suspecting it has only so many
Touches before marble succumbs,
It’s luckier not to take a chance. (1/30/02)
A docent leads a group around
To highlight what’s on view
With information most
Museum-goers never knew.
If he or she’s a good one,
Your attention will be held
And perhaps to more exhibits
You may therefore be compelled.
Though passionate about the job,
Most docents don’t get paid.
Quite often, they’ve retired
From another stock in trade.
We’re lucky for these volunteers
Who happily enthuse
Sharing facts about displays of which
We’ve not the slightest clues.
A small collection
Working on a small poetry connection
There is no haste a poem a day keeps the mind focused
And not drown in self-pity.
It is needed good laughter, the fun of a joke
That can have a stream of seriousness underneath.
Excellent fun docent appears by itself it stirs up
The tired mind, something remembered, because
Life is – despite dire predictions- bitterly funny.
Old men departing wisdom is an uproar of pompous
Idiocy you can’t help but laugh out loud.
I'll remember the museums
And the fine historic homes.
There's been mention of both music
And parade within my poems.
But it really is the people
That will stick inside my brain,
For connections, even brief ones,
Are the gems that I'll retain:
Chuck the artist, born in Kansas,
And his very lovely wife.
If we settled in Savannah,
They'd be friends of ours for life.
Southern Cecil, full of knowledge
Of his charming, tree-lined town,
Gave a walking tour quite wonderful,
While putting "Yankees" down.
Two young salesclerks selling honey
And a waitress from the west;
A museum guide in Clarksdale,
Whose collection so impressed.
John and Eileen from Virginia,
On the rooftop bar called Rocks
And the docent who directed us
To bagels and to lox!
Tim the piano man and Judy,
She a member of my tribe;
John the concierge, exuding
Such a quirky Southern vibe.
I could keep this up forever
But I'll tie it up, quite neat -
Yes, the greatest part of travel
Is the people that you meet.
Where is that daunting monster
Boogie man in life’s shadow
Master mentor and concierge
Whose touch I’ve come to know
To you I’ll waste no breath
Beauty is not long and septic
My daunting docent of death
Midwife to misery, work quick
What small dignities remain
Strung of vomiting seconds
Cultures a pearl of great pain
To ferry a man of no direction
cat layin' in the sunbeam
catching the ease -
that falls through the stream
jus' warmin' up to the notion
of fillin' in for the leisure docent
- life, now this is what it means
© Goode Guy 2012-10-28
The Docent at the Zoo
The docent in the peach cloche hat
leads the rest of us
around the rhino into better light.
She leads us to the guardrail
at the supper hour to watch
the keeper reach inside
the large glass case.
The docent wants us all to see the rat
delight the python.
Donal Mahoney
Last name here, First step there, only one allay...
Vestige sagacity, flaxen ochroid genes skitter down,
Diddle drizzled dints to acquiesce an ugly axis,
Whet of whiled grime, tips on me thus to dawn,
In hands of lonely children, bid these lips bye-bye...
Bequest oaths, for ode by love is a home plight,
Coalescing pivots crux fine fortunes through,
Docent tasks fathom nature's dew of grief,
Tons of totes vex abstruse wills to loot,
But virtuous lenity glib adept heartfelt reefs,
Gait jiffy haps with tribes so grim time tears,
God's flanges tarry finales who lope o'er losers,
But foremost, guerdon sojourn souls aiding others...
Accouter the outfitter by concords of trust,
Master a gentlemen and woman of good taste,
Upon Sunrise and Sunset, leave wise and do weep,
The bequeath of ensuing generations propound...
Upon birth and grave, life and death, -but more life...
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