Visiting Liverpool again to see the Chinese Terracotta Army exhibition, the exacting cruelty of this would be immortal ruler, whose palace streets and armies were recreated to accompany him into the afterlife as powerfully as in actual life, is what strikes you. To maintain the sacred secrecy of the burial place, the craftsmen who designed it were killed along with many others who were to accompany him in his time with the ancestors; concubine or soldier, stable lad or horse, you were going too. Like the Egyptian pharoahs, this first ruler sought to be a living god, which ironically, seems to have been the cause of his demise, from mercury poisoning at the age of 49, consuming that and powdered jade to ensure that he would live forever. The pieces are remarkable, individual faces so distinctly modelled, and there were thousands of them under the hill of the farmer's ordinary land, disturbed in tilling and rediscovered over two thousand years later. So, either the craftsmen did not die in vain as the burial site remained undiscovered, or as with all empires, time eroded this one's legacy, along with the belief systems that created it and the power that let it hold sway. The Han dynasty came next, and their figures are much smaller. I wonder if the old people watching them being made used to say, 'they're not a patch on the real thing, they knew how to do things in my day.' For apparently, there were workshops in go all over the show to get the production line running efficiently for the mighty tomb, started in the first Emperor's lifetime and still being finished after his death.
Two teddies are now
Both in my keeping,
Gifts to toddler grandchildren, us.
When new, Bruin was purple, larger,
With a deep growl.
My brother's.
Teddy was smaller, fawn,
Mine.
He lost his growl after an unfortunate fall
And a sink bath.
I loved Teddy with a depth which included emotional guilt.
I was jealous because Bruin was bigger and purple
And my own ted must never know of that.
I was the oldest but the girl.
Perhaps that played into who got which bear.
Bruin is no longer purple,
Faded after decades on my brother's windowsills,
At home and in his flat.
For a few years now, both have looked down from
The high shelf beside my daughter's childhood raised bed.
They leaned together, slightly forward,
As if wanting to come down.
I climbed up to get them the other day and soon saw why.
Both lambswool, moths have pecked their back legs into small
bald patches.
It's been a poignant time as my mother has lately died too.
I felt I had let them down, the two teds,
Neglected while cherished still.
I've dusted them off and put them on the coverlet
Of the single bed below,
Where they seem more contented, two old men together.
Better now, their worn little faces seem to say.