Museum of Civilization

Here's a little something--a draft of a poem I have been working on for quite a while. The title comes from a quotation in "After Babel," a book on language and translation by the venerable George Steiner, and appears as the epigraph to the poem.



MUSEUM OF CIVILIZATION

“…more or less anguished custodians, racing thought the museum of civilization, seeking order and sanctuary for its treasures before closing time…”
-George Steiner


The bright doors shine of use and tact,
but beyond that the way grows dim—
the corridors hide the sorry history
of civilization’s sorry acts.


Flames first, the promethean altar
in the atrium. But its light does more
for the shadows than anything else,
casting a deep haze of melancholy.


An array of lines run towards space,
making within themselves halls
and other spaces, walls to hold
the litany of things that made us.


As the world got older, though,
we left behind that which was
thought no longer fitting to be
included among the viable.


These things are all forgotten, left
undusted and discolored, alone
and sad as the crowds moved on
to more lustrous matters.


Wistful stones lashed in some array
peculiar to the minds of men
have become indecipherable, now
merely an addition to the floor.


The hammer that once attended with such force
to its duties, discarded in the dirt.
Forgetful stones, lashed in some array
now lost to the minds of men.


Abaci and slide rules get lumped
together in the same exhibit, just
down from what’s left of Hammurabi’s
Code and old A.A.A. insurance forms.


Altruism never gets its own
display, just goes in a bin
somewhere in the back along
with other modern atrocities.


A docent appears every now and
then, sprinting away from himself.
The nightwatchman devours
anything he can find.