Seven Winds The seven winds. Are there seven? Stapling 'Missing' posters to telegraph poles sweaty black leather and the odorous stink of sex and B.O. A slip with a girl's number on it found in the pocket of an old coat ragged and threadbare could she still be out there? a fixed point in a perishing dream. Coffee. Caffeine doesn't keep you awake it's a myth it's the toilet trips that need to piss every goddamned hour slipping through the tincture of light that crawls from the horizon with a Kirlian glow. There are friends long gone who festered for a while couldn't take the hint but maybe I was their project grasping for words as the dying gasp for breath carving my affections instead into the flesh of trees. ©AndrewJamesMurray
You know, things go on. The world still turns, the seasons follow their customary order, stretching ahead from those first, unwitnessed moments. It is man’s tendency to carve time up into chunks, allot measures and names and meaning. Apparently this is the year of the monkey. But only until the portion we call January 28th, for then it becomes the year of the rooster.
I’ve even heard that this year we are adding an extra second-a leap second, to compensate for a slowdown in the Earth’s rotation. That’s going to cock the fireworks up, isn’t it?
I’m not sure if we make it up as we go along, I put my trust in the experts. Maybe we could add an hour-give everyone some extra drinking time?
The days are gone when I spend New Year’s Eve in a pub, congratulating everyone after the countdown with a firm handshake, a kiss, and “Another year closer to death.” But that’s just me-I temper it with a smile. But you guys know that, for you follow City Jackdaw.
But I will join in and welcome (after impatiently waiting that extra second) the carved segment that we will call 2017. And 2016: close the door on the way out.
Hope you all have a great New Year’s Eve, however you want to mark it.
See you on the flip side. Let the segment begin.
The time-between-time. Still my favourite.
I overheard a conversation today between two people. I didn’t intentionally listen, but they were sat behind me on the bus, and so I was a captive eavesdropper. They were talking about what their favourite time of the day was.
By favourite time, I don’t mean 2.34am, or 15.12pm. Rather, the portion of day that they preferred.
One announced that he was a morning person. The other snorted, claiming that he had always been a ‘night owl’.
As we carve up the year into seasons into months into weeks into days into hours, I suppose we cannot help but hold them to comparison and have preferences.
My favourite season is Winter. My favourite half of the year begins with Autumn. Or Fall, as they put it more poetically across the pond.
But what about my favourite time of the day?
I love twilight, that time when the daylight noticeably…
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Those of you who have read my book will have come across a namecheck in the foreword of a certain Kenneth White. White introduced the term Geopoetics, the meaning of which has informed both my writing and the way that I see the world for a long time-long before I had even heard of Geopoetics or knew what it meant.
Being an admirer of White’s poetry and his waybooks, this afternoon I was sat outside in what is perhaps the final ebb of summer, reading House Of Tides. This quote, of an old Japanese saying, stood out:
In youth a man plays with women, in middle age with the arts, and in old age with a garden.
I put it in context for myself.
Here I am: happily married; playing at being a poet; thinking about peas.
I saw this yesterday while waiting for the 163 bus. My son James wasn’t sure if it was real, or alive, but I think that like everything else in Bury bus station it had given up the will to live.
Fallow Beauty Fallow beauty, hungering to be spoiled, possessing every glance for a moment, disobediant eyes trailing her meandering mile, a languid sway into summer's meridian, barelegged and barefooted, suffused in bronze. Wasps are persistent, seeking out discarded fruit, a rotten bounty, stripped and blackening, putrefying half buried in sand alongside I, being swallowed whole, suddenly breathless and old, following a shadow of admirable ruin. ©Andrew James Murray