Mike,

In my view this poem doesn't need much to make it into a great poem that a
lot of people would like and that's nice position to be in, just needing a
few licks of paint rather than a new engine. I've made a few suggestions
below in an amended version. Also I'm a bit uneasy about the proximity of
oven and fridge in S2. It looks deliberate, but even so I find myself
changing horses mid-stream. I suppose there is the unifying theme of food
preparation.


Colin


----- Original Message -----
From: "Mike Horwood" <[log in to unmask]>
To: <[log in to unmask]>
Sent: Thursday, February 27, 2003 11:32 AM
Subject: New sub: Museum

AMENDED BY COLIN:

Musuem

This is Museum Street, where my father worked,
where I visited as a toddler. I can just recall
sun on linoleum and a high window
with a cream-painted sill.
On my way to the British Museum
I fancy my feet hit the same stones
my father´s did all those years ago.

Inside, the building mimics well the maze of history.
Easy to lose one´s way and end up here
among the school groups and Egyptian mummies.
Behind glass a corpse lies,
its sinews pulled clear of the flesh,
like a joint from the oven, visible to the bone,
skin the colour of cooked meat,
dry and shrivelled from too long in the fridge.(An easy "solution" would
just be to miss out the last line of this stanza altogether.)

Its hair reminds me of the coarse tufts of mane
on my childhood rocking horse after years of use,
its lips pulled into a grin of ecstasy or pain,
the expression´s meaning forever lost.(This is the weakest part of the poem
but I'm not sure what to do with it. Maybe miss out ecstasy and pain and
suggest that the meaning is guessed at rather than forever lost?)

The children crouch upon the floor
and fumble with paper and pencil (sounds a bit contrived.....would they all
fumble together?.....but it's okayish.)
after the shape of a limb, the line of the grin.
Not knowing the world its empty eyes looked on
I cannot guess what it would make of this
and instead see myself in a glass case
in some unimaginable millennium,
my body present, my mind hidden from observing eyes. ...or lost to observing
eyes...or gone from.....

With shuffled papers and feet, the class departs,
leaving a memory to be recalled, perhaps,
in forty years by the word `museum´
or dusty sunbeams through a skylight.
Walking Museum Street in the declining sun
I am unable to say which building he worked in,
through which door his back vanished each time.

Most of the changes are made to improve the sound of the poem (hopefully
tweaking up the impact a little in the process) but it depends on your ear,
and you might prefer the original.


Mike

ORIGINAL VERSION:

Musuem

This is Museum Street, where my father once worked,
where I visited as a toddler, can just recall
sun on linoleum and a high window
with a cream-painted sill.
On my way to the British Museum
I fancy my feet strike the same stones
my father´s did all those years ago.

Inside, the building mimics well the maze of history.
How easy to lose one´s way and end up here
among the school groups and Egyptian mummies.
Behind a glass a corpse reclines,
its sinews pulled clear of the flesh,
like a joint from the oven, visible to the bone,
skin the colour of cooked meat,
dry and shrivelled from too long in the fridge.

Its hair reminds me of the coarse tufts of mane
on my childhood rocking horse after years of use,
its lips pulled into a grin of ecstasy or pain,
the expression´s meaning forever lost.

The children crouch about the floor
and fumble with paper and pencil
after the shape of a limb, the line of the grin.
Not knowing the world its empty eyes looked on
I cannot guess what it would have made of this
and instead see myself in a glass case
in some unimaginable millennium,
all my secrets hidden in my sockets from observing eyes.

With a shuffling of papers and feet, the class departs,
leaving a memory to be recalled, perhaps,
forty years hence by the word `museum´
or dusty sunbeams through a skylight.
Outside and walking Museum Street in the declining sun
I am unable even to say which building he worked in,
through which door his back disappeared, repeatedly.




Mike