"Bishop Auckland" and Two Other Poems by John Redmond
"when Helle / in the middle of her rescue / let go / of the Ram’s left horn / and fell into the sea"
Bishop Auckland
almost every week I think about how men think about the Roman Empire almost every day The Guardian confirms it’s a meme even today I am thinking about Vinovium state-of-the-art saunas of the Sixth Legion which lie a mile or so behind the s-shaped interference F runs across the gravel of the Bishop’s Palace when one ‘s’ trips D and himself he repeatedly slaps his head “my fault! my fault!” a violent self-reproof upsetting as his brother bleeding from the nose in a quest for paper towels I enter the expensive renovation an expert on Edwardian shooting-parties (not how he got rich) has spent 160 million (a third of his fortune) on Bishop Auckland “I am looking for a wife” elderly man lost in doorway declares “okay” I say accelerating by “for my wife!” he cries after me through the six-metre hologram of a burning iris (artist: Matt Collishaw) J and I chase D and F to where they roll around in tasteful darkness flickering mauve and blue surrealist school-disco which segues into the magical calm of touchscreens two sore heads leaning together magnify the Binchester Ring even as I move between a gold Vespasian and a Merovingian tremissis
Veganuary
“Daddy can you wipe the porridge off the remote control?” “and something from Veganistan?” “okay okay” to D to J I say Veganuary overspills February afghan rice? caramelized onions? gado gado? anything with dukkah? pretend I know? no “what is za’atar?” we gather on the Karistia what gods and goddesses remain look up look around reappraise “a spice mix” gently lower my wineglass “what you smell now” to the Paw Patrol helicopter landing-zone “okay” “thought we could have it with yesterday’s rice you didn’t have for lunch” J’s hummus more lemony than ever “a good substitute for pepper? can you ask google?” to the deities of peace we dribble through the distressed cracks of the kitchen table the good-value Douro from Lidl “paprika” a hand on my chin J reveals “you know I may never go back” while D turns my head to look at him: “I want a cracker in the shape of a circle”
Bing
sunday morning cinema complex banging but not our screen we can fling popcorn wherever we like Bing the hour-long flick D loves makes F exclaim: “it’s like being at nursery!” already the day is too much about his brother after the supersized rabbit is helped to his feet (a signature move) he tumbles from his Christmas present: a low indoor slide I film on my phone while F dances barroom-drunk-style against the credits then stumbles for real he watches it back and wants another go but take two is too contrived we drive to lunch at the National Glass Centre main floor closed for weeks because of a broken window the staff explain “it’s a university building” I read “in the Middle Ages the sponsor of a church-window could take it with them when they moved” fall in love with balsamarium on the rebound from unguentarium for Christmas can I have a Christmas made of Roman glass ? at home F requests The Secret of the Kelpie “without a Scottish accent” and I ask “how long will the chicken be?” J hands me a knife to go out and cut rosemary I learn my mother died on The Tubilustria the festival of sacred trumpets when Helle in the middle of her rescue let go of the Ram’s left horn and fell into the sea
