Pick Up A Penguin

Another brief break in the weather. Met J in National Gallery for lunch, and afterwards walked him back to work near Stephen's Green. On my way back to the car, I spotted a truck outside what I call The Dead Zoo (the Museum of Natural History) and saw people in white coats removing exhibits (mainly large birds).

The place has been closed for repairs and renovation since one of the stairways collapsed over two years ago. I have always been fascinated by this creaky Victorian time machine smelling of leather, floor polish and dust, and have taken photographs inside on a couple of occasions (such as my Ape Self Portrait).

A couple of years before they closed it down I had made contact with the 'keeper', Nigel, who seemed in favour of me carrying out a photographic project, but somehow this never took off. Now, by lucky timing, there was a chance for some unusual and striking images.

However, this proved more difficult than I'd hoped it might be. The young people who were handling the exhibits were friendly and open to being photographed, as were the guys in the truck (and the policeman on duty at the gate was easy-going, allowing me to go through and stand on the path as they came out, handlers & animals two by two (or three by three for larger ones). A number of people stopped to see what was happening, including a pro photo-journalist I've met before and Adrian K, with whom I had a good chat (about Anthony etc.)

A really juicy opportunity for a photographer, but I was wary of getting under the workers' feet and the light was going. I tried a variety of angles but am not sure I really got 'the' shot. Here's a few more:
RHEA
HANDLERS 1
HANDLER 2
GROUP PORTRAIT in TRUCK

I have been trying to write about the Dead Zoo for decades. My first draft was actually titled 'The Dead Zoo', which I thought was original (though I was probably wrong). The people running the museum have now adopted that title (or subtitle) themselves, so perhaps it was far more common and obvious than I'd thought. I was going to include a recent draft of the poem (now a mini sequence) in my forthcoming collection, but I don't think it quite gets there. Here it is in any case:

In The Dead Zoo

Aflame with antlers, almost tapping
the foyer ceiling, a roof-raiser
bursting with sex and death.

Should we view it from over or under,
stand on the polished floor
or the tundra?

*

More inscrutable than the Sphinx:

the trophy-head of a rhino
shot and stuffed over a century ago

by Colonel Spinks.

*

Suspended from the roof on chains,
the skeleton of a Fin Whale

is a stopped Leviathan pendulum,
The Shape Of Things To Come.

*

Where is he, my 12 year old self,
soft-eyed hoarder of Wildlife

magazines, dogged haunter
of ditches and bogs?

*

DO NOT TOUCH

the hippo's tarry flesh
just yet ?

wait for the rat kangaroo
to undo.

*

Here's how to fade
from a dazzling op-art zebra
into just that shade
of sepia.


*

Upstairs, along the galleries,
dust-coloured moths and butterflies

(ribbons from an antique war)
recall the killing jar,

though one or two
flash, forget-me-not blue


*

Here, touching what
he should not:
an elephant's cunt, a tear
in an ancient coat.

*

Or here, a hairless face
reflected in the glass,
among the glass eyes of the great
and less great apes.

*

Then out from under the high glass
of that creaky Victorian ark

sailing into what wine dark
alas.


Good grief. Worse than I thought: 'alas' my ass! May be able to salvage something though.