The Mummy

[amergin]

I must have been a morbid child,
drawn so easily from the playground,
away from the sunshine and laughter,
to the long silent room,
that housed our municipal museum.

I was new to death,
knew only the strangeness of
Grandma laid pale in pine,
face carved with pain and years.
There were nettles
where we buried her,
high on the road home,
and the sound of rain
bleak on elder leaves
across the moorland yard;

The museum was a place
where death glared behind glass,
beyond the probe of rain
and the spite of nettles.

Death swung in mockery of life.
Still birds caught in flight.
An eagle, clamped on heathered rock,
rid a rabbit of its plaster bowels,
beak and claw red and bright forever.
the glass-eyed fox,
teeth white in grinning rictus,
pinned a torn grouse with its bloody paw.
I shaped the strange words “Vulpes vulpes”,
with a quiet mouth,
my reflection wraith in glas

She slept under a thin black leatherette cloth;
a cloth I lifted often.
The smeared vague mound of her nose
and pits of eyes
were all that made that yellow mud a face.
Her slender shoulders tapered
to the ragged bandage at her feet.
About twelve she was,
tiny Princess of the Upper Nile,
and those were her toe-bones,
the label said,
those polished, earthy pebbles,
spilt from burst bands.

‘When the four corners of the earth shall meet
you will rise again’:
the hieroglyphs promised.

when rain drips from elder leaves
beads on shining nettle,
and the sodden earth bursts
disgorging rotted yesterdays,
those broken feet may dance again
and mud laugh sweet as spring.

[ray miller]

I enjoyed this very much, absorbing and moving, well written. Particularly liked "death swung in mockery of life", which evokes a host of images, and "clamped on heathered rock". You perhaps don't need a comma after "long silent room". I wondered about the last stanza, whether it's not laying it on a bit thick?

[camus]

I very much enjoyed the first three stanzas. Simple yet evocative language.

After that, I dunno, it sounded like Jim Morrison, God Forbid!

[Nigel]

Of offerings over the last couple of days or so this poem is by far the best. There are some real Egyptian jewels in it:

There were nettles
where we buried her

and

(smeared) shaped the strange words “Vulpes vulpes”,
with a quiet mouth,
my reflection wraith in glas

and

vague mound of her nose
and pits of eyes
were all that made that yellow mud a face

and

and those were her toe-bones,

those polished (earthy) pebbles,
spilt from (burst) bands.

- you don't need the 'burst' if they're spilt !

These images work very well and are confidently poised. Where the poem's not so good is in the middle section decribing the birds rather obviously, I thought. I don't think that section does anything for the poem other than as padding and, as the poem is needlessly long, I'd excise it if I were you. I'm equally unconvinced about the last two stanzas. A bit too sentimental for me after the matter-of-fact approach of what comes before. I think I would have started the poem with 'I was new to death' , which would be arresting,and called it 'in the municipal museum'. Does the poem need to portrait what sort of child you were ? You may think so. I don't. I'm sure this would make a good poem though. You probably need to assess exactly what you're trying to say with it. I wonder if you're sure about that.

[David]

This is very good, amergin, although I'm not convinced it's not actually more like good sensitive prose rather than poetry. Consider:

I must have been a morbid child, drawn so easily from the playground, away from the sunshine and laughter, to the long silent room, that housed our municipal museum. I was new to death, knew only the strangeness of Grandma laid pale in pine, face carved with pain and years. There were nettles where we buried her, high on the road home, and the sound of rain bleak on elder leaves across the moorland yard;

The museum was a place where death glared behind glass, beyond the probe of rain and the spite of nettles.

(Interestingly, reformatting it as prose also highlights some of the (apparently) incorrect punctuation.)

See? Lovely limpid prose. I know it's a dangerous game doing this, because that prose / poetry line is easy to cross and hard to see sometimes, but that's just the way it struck me. It doesn't take away from my pleasure in your word choice and usage.

Cheers

David

[OwenEdwards]

And yet - David - I'd say other parts works better as rhythmic "poetic verse"; the last verse for instance (which I quite like). A subdued change of tone.