Hi Mike,
No it didn't disturb a lot - just a little! (LOL!) It's just when it's
noticed it tends to stay noticed (and I don't know why some repeated words
stick out - but this one seems to wave and grin...)
Bob
>From: Mike Horwood <[log in to unmask]>
>Reply-To: The Pennine Poetry Works <[log in to unmask]>
>To: [log in to unmask]
>Subject: Re: New sub: Museum - Bob
>Date: Wed, 5 Mar 2003 12:21:54 +0200
>
>Hi Bob,
> Thanks for your feedback, glad you enjoyed the piece. I had
>overlooked the repetition of father and I´ll give it some thought. Did it
>disturb you a lot?
>
>
>Best wishes, Mike
>
>
>
>
>--- Alkuperäinen viesti ---
>Hi Mike,
>I really like reading this poem! It slows me down and makes me savour the
>lines - and evokes for me the huge varnish and glass cased atmosphere of
>such a place!
>I keep noticing you've used the word "father" twice in the first stanza
>(which could easily be rectified if you want to...).
>I also love the way the class isn't mentioned until almost the end and that
>reference adds so much extra depth to an already evocating poem. (Is there
>a
>word "evocating"? - well, I guess there is now!)
>Bob
>
>
>
>
>
>
> >From: Mike Horwood <[log in to unmask]>
> >Reply-To: The Pennine Poetry Works <[log in to unmask]>
> >To: [log in to unmask]
> >Subject: New sub: Museum
> >Date: Thu, 27 Feb 2003 13:32:59 +0200
> >
> >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
>
>
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