Museum of the mind

As child I stared at canvas, stone and wood
where nothing was revealed, no sound to hear,
the quiet in the room, the solemn mood:
museums seemed a place of mold and fear.

The cracking of the old gallery floors,
although the rooms were empty but of me,
the brutal slamming of unopened doors
and paintings that showed more than I could see.

Perhaps I was too young to grasp the art
but beautiful those memories still feel
of antique buildings, silent days alone.

I keep the memoirs housing in my heart
where no decision stands of what is real
as every art is truth within its own.

Comments on: "Museum of the mind" (14)

  1. as every art is truth within its own.

    so very true and a often a different truth for each of us

  2. I agree with the gentleman above. That is the line which lept out at me and set me thinking. You always do

  3. This is a wonderful poem – one of your very best methinks

    And I concur with the other two gentlemen about that line


    • Hi David, thank you very much 🙂

      Those formal forms have a certain charm I think, but I also like the free verse. Can’t decide which road to take so I walk both 🙂



  4. Everyone got there before me – that last line is outstanding. A fine poem. N.x

  5. This may sound odd, Ina, but the end rhymes of your sestet jumped out at me, like a little telegraphed poem in its own right: art–feel–alone, heart–real–own….:-)

  6. Widow Beach said:

    Deeply beautiful, Ina.

  7. The last line is wonderful, Ina, but because the rest of the poem wanders through your experience and leads us there. Really love this one! XO ♥

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