Poem: Admiring Art


We’re admiring art. Art is big, framed
and on the walls. We are somewhat
the same size, pointing to the same
thing. It looks like a limb to me, but
you are a pervert. Yes?

Art is admiring us. As we are washed
in sunlight. Living in London, it is rare
to see you in the sun. When your eyes
turn browner. You squint, and your hair
shines, like metal.

We are standing. They are hanging.
Nudes, birds, tables, fruits and wars.
Nothing is modern about this. It’s older
than I am. We wish to hang sunlight
on the walls now. Yes.

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2 Responses to Poem: Admiring Art

  1. Sneha says:

    Hey, I really liked this poem.

    The picture too. Where was it taken, Tate Modern?


  2. Sneha: Thanks.. I actually thought this was one of my better poems – the picture was taken in Tate Modern. Though the lady there glared at me and i thought she was going to break my fingers for clicking.


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