Nothing of meaning exists here
anymore: I am permanent, juxtaposed
in front of a painting, mostly blues:
cerulean, azure, navy, sky. I cannot
move. The painting is heavy
in layers, when it cracks there is nothing
but tempestuous blue. You are not with me,
though I want you to be. Someone has brushed
this canvas in the ways I swoosh
peanut butter on bread,
thick as the slice. How ordinary.
I make my way upstairs, to the room of Monet.
No one is here. They tell me they are closing.
They tell me to hurry in my solace.
I squint at the corner and I only see small copies
of color moving, transcending canvas. I step back,
like they say, perspective is everything:
a wall of lilies and color. This feeling
is not Giverny. Yesterday, we were there,
traipsing along the folds of landscape.
Monet made an illusion
out of the ordinary. I keep doing that too. Keep
wanting things to mean more.
But here I am past closing,
alone in a museum, whispering
with my eyes to paintings
that will never hear me, never look back.

—Alecia Beymer

POET’S STATEMENT:
This poem was written out of the dissonance that comes from experiencing multiple forms of reality. I had in one moment spent time in the exact place where Monet had found and painted the water lilies and in another spent time in the museum that housed his reflections and interpretations of that reality -- in both such ordinary fascination. I felt as if I had been a conduit -- had glimmered or stumbled upon some form of artistic inspiration. But then I remembered that I, too, want everything to be more than it is and in that hope I met a minute solace. And so I created this poem, attempting to tell you what happened.

JUDGE’S COMMENTS:
The language and thought flow and expand in the ending revelation. Meaning grows and gathers impact. Poem is lush.