The Invisible Man
Four Poems about an imaginary artwork



The Visitors

In the Tate’s echoing Turbine Hall
We see only a wooden chair.
This hushed, impassive crowd have all
Come to stare.
Is there anyone there?

The work is called The Invisible Man.
Allegedly he sits.
On the chair there. We strain our wits
To see him if we can.

Some of us speak confidently.
Some of us sometimes think we can see
Something. Did our imaginations deceive us,
Was that a rippling of the air?
Did we see him? Who’d believe us?
Is he there or not there?
Somehow we care.


The Critic

Conceptually complete, the essence
Of the presence of non-presence,
This achieves its perfection
Through perfection of absence. No confection
Of paint and canvas conceivably matches
The ambiguity of being/unbeing that  this catches
So effortlessly as it makes us look and think again
About how we look and think, and strain
To find meaning, about our persistent
Engagement with the abstruse, the non-existent.
In comparison, artworks that are merely visible
Seem insufficient, even risible


The Student

I feel myself failing. There’s nothing there,
Except an empty chair.
The A-grade students, those whose flair
Gets them marks, will tell you it’s a work of rare
Distinction, engaging with the big rare
Questions. Well, I don’t care
What tutors want to hear. I stare,
But all I see is a chair.
Am I thick? I can’t bear
Being the stupid one. I’m in despair.
It’s just a chair.


Daphne

I’ve been looking at him all day
I look and I see what I long to be.
What do I see? I can’t really say,
But it has something to do with eternity,
With the soul, with preferring
Not to be real. It’s actually stirring,
The way he sits there, seemingly
                beyond feeling, beyond sorrow.
I shall come back tomorrow.

George Simmers

If you have any thoughts about this poem,  George Simmers would be pleased to hear them