At The Met Poem by Patrick VincentBrown

At The Met



Roofed by Japanese temples and
Artificial light we stood. No rising

Sun from the east here. Rather from the east
wing. Our roof, as ornate as a geishas

Conversation is deceivingly simple,
Curled up at the four corners like a sultan's

Slippers towards a God though whose, I
Could not tell. I stood with a small worshipping

Mass whose saviour must be a giant eye
As the talisman's around their necks

Implied. Only I and my Buddha boy
Stood naked necked. His naked nape, bowed like

A lover's top lip and his shorn head, in
Danger of colliding with my hip, aimed

At our interest. A lady of the mass
With a voice like a bugled blare to send

The weary off to war, spoke. The small pool
Of water at the foot of the temple

We all penetrated with a glare (the
East know the importance of water, so

It's said) . At the pools edge she read aloud
The sign: 'Do not throw pennies as they might

Endanger the fish.' What fish we all wondered?
Then: 'Did I just see one scurry by? '

The question sent us all on a journey
And the ladies, camera eyes bouncing

Like bewildered demi-gods against
Ancient mountains, were off on the hunt.

'Do fish 'scurry'? '
'Is 'scurry' the word? '
'Who still says 'scurry'? '
'Well, what do fish do? '

The leaves of the Bodhi tree tickled his
Head, I could see. For silently, with fixed glare,

And all the aplomb of a cherry trees leaf
As it alights from its place, he whispered: 'swim'.

In an instant the light danced off the water
And rose and congealed a tight ball like a dying

Star. It ascended my face where the white
Heat thrust through my nostrils and the light

Flashed out my eyes. I staggered for a moment.
Blind and frightened, I leaned upon a pillar

And speculated: The superlative artist paints
Mount Fuji with a mere stroke of the wrist.

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