Open 11am to 8pm
Royal Festival Hall (Level 5), Southbank Centre, LondonOpen Tuesday - Sunday from 11am to 8pm
A wall hung with charms -
pictures, a Welsh love-spoon, beads
I live with this
the touchstones, rituals, to hold off or hold to...
Clinging to the walls?
A soft hot night, and May
now, a half moon so clear
in the dark sky
All round the globe
Like Chinese poems of dear friends’ separations,
brief meetings, then parting again
Shifts and changes
that can’t be charmed away
only soothed by this “hollow”
I remember the taste of coffee
as late at night I entered a room
where you lay sleeping
The pros have gathered around a man
who claims he eats nothing but the finest
blown glass. He prefers marbles, well-made,
swallows them like grapes, a king’s ransom,
but he can also eat any type of glass. The men
become jealous because it is one thing to make
the glass orbs, breathe life into the glass,
but another is to consume it without risk.
When the man crunches, they fall silent,
hearing the black molars grind the glass.
Everyone at this year’s convention will remember
such a man. How he will return home
to his wife and children, turn off the lights,
pick at his teeth with a toothpick-thin splinter,
belch by the moon-lit pool, and a fine dust
glitter will float out of his mouth like rain.
Some men feed from the work of others, live
well by it, live better, some men can never
understand the appeal of simple things like glass.
For the man who eats glass, this is a life-long
hobby, a passion like any other. He simply
likes the attention, likes to show off his skill.
A lightbulb here, a chandelier’s leaf, a cup –
such hunger is next to godliness, grace, so it goes.
In such times, lacking a god, he is still happy.