Here is a poem by my friend Will Walker. This piece hangs in the de Young
and I went to visit it again yesterday ~ inspired by Will.
AT THE MUSEUM
In with all the art, you start thinking about a poem,
maybe something about love, which everybody wants,
and death, which nobody does, and then you mix
them up, some wanting death, some hating love,
maybe adding on some love in death and some death
in love, and all the words are hovering, waiting
for something spontaneous, when you turn the corner
into the room wth the vast floating fantasia
in charcoal, a flotilla of tiny bits from a church
in Alabama torched by bigots, such a beautiful
strange display of hatred turned to something
like a prayer, achieved with infinite care and patience
and, you guess, a lot of strong invisible fish line
and some sort of unseen anchors way up
in the ceiling, as well as something durable
and efficient to hold the line and shards together,
my god, and fire, such an enormous, fierce holocaust,
love and hate and fire and death all floating
like a horde of tiny charcoal angels in a silence
that almost weeps. Every day, you think, it hangs like this
as patrons pass, and every night in the museum,
silent, empty, protecting this cry of outrage and loss
and pain. You can only stay a few minutes,
and then you move to the next gallery, carrying
your poem about love and death and fire.
~Will Walker
