Museums

What’s that Mother? A museum, child:

A specialized type of cage with Doric columns.

We lock up something called Art there

To keep it from people who need it,

People whose lives it might change,

Who might escape us. 

We can’t destroy Art, much as that appeals,

So we hide it in plain sight,

Make it difficult, precious,

Something for the rich, the intellectuals,

And other pampered pets.

You see Art has this hideous effect

On what humans call their heart.

What’s that Mother?

No one really knows, child, but we can’t control it;

It tempts them to welcome back

Huge parts of themselves

We need them to ignore,

So they stay frightened, miserable, and tame,

And don’t discover the infinite, incalculable power

At their core. Then they see us at last

And know what we are to them; know they don’t need us. 

It’s hard enough already

To keep our foot on their necks,

When it’s so easy for them

To tear the veil aside.

Then they laugh and dance

With the unexpected insight

That this world was always theirs

For free, all along, all along.

Then we have to send in

The wise to obfuscate,

The clever to complicate,

And the deep to kill their spirit.

And that’s just the beginning. Then there’s

A weary lot of work to contain the contagion.

Truth and joy are very catching,

Poison to us, and powerful antidotes

To all we do.

So when they see that Truth

Is just the truth of their own experience,

And they need never fear anything again,

They’re lost to us. All we can hope for then,

Is to isolate them, drive them to the fringe.  

That’s tricky and delicate work.

It used to be we could just

Denounce, defame, kill them

As heretics, lunatics, enemies of the State,

Hunt them down with their families, friends,

Anyone contaminated; but that isn’t politic

Today. We have to be subtler

And quiet. Fortunately, we found

A strategy that almost always works,

And the beauty is we do almost nothing.

Bless them; artists do it to themselves,

With just one misdirection from us:

We get them to forget their Muse.

They think that they create alone.

So when inspiration doesn’t arrive,

They think it’s their fault.

Then they cripple themselves with doubt,

Fear, questions and self-hate. They try

Extreme measures to force something to come,

And when that doesn’t work, they despair.

Then it’s easy to make them discredit themselves

So no one believes their cursed epiphany.  

They wander from the perilous fire

We can never hope to put out,

And die young, often by their own hand,

Which is cheaper, easier, keeps us

Safely hidden, and avoids unpleasant

Entanglements with the courts.

© Larry Haworth 2013