Under Glass


Under Glass

Curled. Mummified. Pacific:
Mother of children,
come to rest in clay;
whose hand, now withered,
once rocked stony cradles,
tended ancient fires.

Under glass, Neolithic shards.
It is not recorded
what these vessels held,
what fires or what stones
these people sat beside;
it cannot be known
how long the night must have seemed,
whether one hungry day ran into the next
or if, staring up,
they saw the moon as only moon
or some terrible, vagrant god.

dVerse Poets
Tuesday Poetics
~ Passions Stamped On Lifeless Things ~


19 thoughts on “Under Glass

  1. So beautifully written. Yes, it’s true. We really can’t know how they felt. I hope they felt some joy, but that’s difficult when you’re starving and cold.

    I read an article recently that theorized that ancient artists who did some cave paintings meant them to be see as sort of performance art.

  2. They say the the first natives that saw the ships of the invaders could not “see” them, could not comprehend them. Time travel will be a bitch that way.

  3. This is so good, Ron! For me, it captures the profundity of our connection with our ancestors through deep time:

    ‘whose hand, now withered,
    once rocked stony cradles,
    tended ancient fires.’

  4. I’m always ambivalent about mummified bodies in museums under glass. It seems a desecration somehow. But you have managed to enter her soul and give her life. (K)

  5. I think, like me, you have limitless curiositu and always want to know the “rest of the story”. I, too, wonder what they knew, what they saw, what they thought! Enjoyed your write!

  6. The moon is very two sided — one light — one dark. This disparity, this contrast creates impenetrable essence. The place of union believes all of life will find balance and beauty — and death is beautiful and a release.

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