Earlier this year Rosemary and I travelled to the mythical city of London, to meet up with a dozen or so other poets, all inhabitants of
Poets' Graves. The initial meeting (where we exchanged code-words and established our Poetical Power by duelling with variably-rhymed couplets) was set for Friday evening. So we travelled down on the Friday morning and spent the afternoon in the British Museum.
There is, very nearly, no better way to spend a Friday afternoon.
I try never to judge, especially in poems, so I am attempting here to deliver the whole mixed nature of the experience. You should get touches of the vastness of time, embarrassment at one's ancestors cultural arrogance, watching other visitors, watching guards, browsing the gift shop, and even standing in awe before the certain exhibits. I also firmly believe that even with its oddities, failings and unintended humour, the entire enterprise is magnificent and I sincerely hope they continue adding to it for centuries to come.
On a administrative note, let me take this opportunity to drop my blogging frequency to merely fortnightly. Let there be no rumours that I am running out of poems! At a quick count there's about 600 lurking in the pile and I'd imagine at least 25% would be bloggable. It's more a matter of time and not wanting to rush the postings out.
However, enough of that. Forward into the museum!
In the British Museum
The Painter of London B76
Named for a water jug
this Athenian black-figure vase-painter
is anonymous. Nonetheless consistent,
his character and style suggest
unique artistic personality
in five hundred B.C.
The cat statue that can't be seen...
...we did not see. The gallery is closed
and possibly the King's New Statuette
is not so much to write home about?
Chinese wheelchair woman asleep in gift shop
Wait here they said, in fluent Mandarin,
we just must see the big Assyrian beards.
Roman copies of Greek philosophers
Let us fantasize,
that these once formed a popular Roman
philosophy exhibit. Let's see the faces
behind the ideas, the slave recites,
two hundred times a day, and whips
aside the curtain.
Please do not touch the objects
Some interpretation is required...
Door handles, toilet seats, mugs and plates
in the café, and books and pens, key rings
and more mugs in the gift shop--
are not "objects"
but Rosetta stones, guards, other visitors,
the fire alarms, Ashurbanipal--
those probably are.
This object is currently on loan
Please move along calmly, gentle visitor,
the item normally itemized by the label--
neatly printed dates and names and just
enough description to pique your interest
--is not here.
On knowing and having known...
As a reward
for guarding Room 13 for seven years,
Myra sees perfection. After directing
a third old lady to the loos, she flexes
feet inside her shoes, and as she turns,
there it is laid casually in a glass case.
She takes a moment and makes
a mental note, that if a visitor
should ever ask after the ineffable,
sublime, or perfect, why?
This is where it is.
A sky made from geometry
There is a world beyond this, hard
as it may be to understand, in fact
a Universe. What other planets lie
beyond the sky, and in archaeology departments
across the land, what fervent plans
and star maps trouble minds
more commonly obsessed
with their next TV appearance?
There must be more! More carvings; more loom weights;
more votive bowls and carved inscriptions,
ritual objects, tablets of all descriptions, knives,
death masks and tomb goods, weapons, bones and stones,
eating utensils, bas relief huntsmen
and local bureaucrat accounts dating
--it is believed--to the Early Consumerist era.
What is the British Museum for,
if not the Universe?
What is the Universe for,
if not the British Museum?
