Rosetta Stone Poem by Brian Taylor

To the British Museum in W3
in very different company.
To an Egyptian archaeological mortuary;
dismembered torsos and massive heads,
disjointed arms and shattered legs;
imitations of flesh and bone
in granite, sandstone,
marble and obsidian.
Mirrors of souls buried in oblivion.

There,
the many who swarmed along the Nile
and lived and loved among a
host of enemies, stare
with dead eyes and frozen smile
with a rich, dark hunger
to reawaken in the sun.

Broken friezes, unhinged doors,
fragmented pediments, mosaic floors,
gold necklaces that have outlived their necks
failed amulets – all trawled from these Egyptian wrecks.

Trawled by English gentlemen
from a many layered human tragedy.
Gentlemen on grand tours who came to pick and choose
from what an ancient people made and were made to lose
by Nubian, Ptolemy, Roman and Ottoman;
-these more concerned with slaves and human plunder
than with these artefacts
which you have seen
and which have made you wonder.

Here in this place
they rest, each with its space,
its lighting and its label;
-delicacies upon a cultural table.
For whom?

Today, for whom?

Today each room
is like a formicarium.
A mass of students represents the human race.
An apian hum of languages
from those who stare,
drink coke and share
their sandwiches
in this Temple to Impermanence.

These, having fed on history’s desiderata,
come out into the sun, hold hands and heed
the pigeons that have also come to feed
-but not on culture.
Their sense
is for survival.
They have no need
to be embalmed,
like the Sumerians
or charmed
like antiquarians.
They have no artefacts to give
providing vital cultural data.
They merely try to live
a little longer
and die
a little later.