Pet cemetery & On Breathing Room III by Anthony Gormley
by Michael Pedersen
[ poetry - april 11 ]
Pet cemetery
The fence around Jesmond Dene
punctuates the perimeter,
like Saturn's ringed sentries;
a sharp wind shoves
with bullish force.
Below Armstrong's Bridge
in Colman's Field, the names
of pets on graves evoke
our retinal cartwheeling:
'Bruce, Rough Collie
Sadly missed.'
'Poppet, Poodle
A dear friend.'
These pedigree stones,
are powdered daily, nowt
but a little moss, seeping out
of cracks; there's something in this,
totems of how backwards
things can be.
As we vent spleen, the wind blusters
into full cantata, shakes
the surrounding alpines, shapes
silhouettes in the furs;
sky decants darkness, rains
erupt and our courage crumbles.
So hand-in-hand we'll dash
from the Dene, a single stiffened
apparition, whimpering,
slavering, as dogs do.
On Breathing Room III by Anthony Gormley
I step backwards into it,
a paradigm of time
and space: stacked, propped
and columned. As foes
of forgotten brotherhoods,
perspectives rage
war. Structures shift, from
sitting-down to standing-up,
moving to stock-still;
atoms split, electrons trill.
Inside these walls is plenty,
outside is rush and panic,
the to-and-fro of workplace
and dinner-date. It's not just
a clock but mechanical zeniths
and a cache of interfering science.
The exhibition closes but the cafe,
proffering sugars and syrups,
remains open, delivering an epiphany
like an express package: I, too,
am science and precedent
is everywhere, when layers
complex as trifle pudding,
have started back at recipe.
