Remembering Christchurch on Poetry Friday

This week I have two poems about Christchurch, New Zealand, a wonderful city that has suffered a disaster. Please consider donating to the relief efforts there.

Neither of these poems has been revised since I wrote them in 2003.

The first poem recalls my visit to the Cathedral with my son, Angus.
The other helps me remember an extraordinary room in the museum, which is, essentially, a museum upon the act of museum. It is part of The Museum of Coincidence series.

My Angus, wild child, having won the argument
about what is interesting, inside or out.

For Angus, Archbishop of Canterbury

A gentleman of perfect kindness said that you, wild child,

might one day be the Archbishop of Canterbury.

Then, as now, it seems unlikely to be true,

but it is not in me to disabuse anyone of faith.

A moment later, I hustled you out of the nave,

soaring acoustics for a Sunday choir

or a howling child uninterested in any place

without the sea or pebbles or at least a rubber ball.

And while I brushed my hand over the stones laid in the wall

brought from Jerusalem and that other Canterbury

my fingers found out no hint of mineral recall,

nothing like you, pulling me, eager for something new.

The Cathedral was badly damaged by the quake,

but built into its foundation are stones from other

enduring places. It will be made whole again, 

I believe.

This Irish Elk is actually in the Naturalis
at Leiden, but he was not the first I'd met. 

I finally met the Irish Elk in Christchurch.

What a rendezvous!

I can only imagine the passage in crates

probably around the horn

tossed by some storm.

And then the patience

the sort of patience that only comes

when you are wired together bones

maybe surreptitiously numbered for assembly

maybe put together a little bit oddly

if it comes to that.

Until I come staggering past

thinking I can’t fit anything else in my eyes.

And the empty socket reaches out to me

and draws me right past the glass

into the wonder cupboard:

a jumble of moccasins and glass models of jellyfish

and a even a wax naturalist

because no collection is without its collector.

 Please visit Read Write Believe for more poetry today.

And, if you are able, consider helping Christchurch.