time passing poems by Peter:
Ode to Narrative.
Born backwards;
could sleep standing-up,
lived in a world upside-down.
silent as light.
grafted like a Scott;
found and loved Cimbrone.
Stars that shine now.
The doctor (under)standing on his head.
The world lives in me (or am I backwards to think so?)
I am neither independent
nor simply dependent:
I am simply Peter that is somewhere
to be found within (and without)
my biology, physics and chemistry.
Every sceptic can agree on this
astonishing ‘scientific’ complexity!
Peter lives in a world far more than
that which is carried in words or indeed numbers
Perhaps our world
can never fully be understood:
DLROW or 12345?
Letters, numbers,
expressed backwards or forwards,
struggle to represent time as experienced.
How foolish
To think that we can ‘capture’ the moment!
“Listen. Time passes. Listen”
Every moment has properties in physics, chemistry and biology
A togetherness that is lost without time and tense.
“Listen. Science. Listen”
Vivendo discimus
The Antiquary worries:
that today’s Science
has lost the place
of T I M E
in our lives.
[ W A V E R L E Y ]
sixty years since
they were buried
in the graveyard
sixty years since
they were loved.
*this poem was inspired by coming across a grave that made me cry. It was by chance I came across the grave to Margaret Ogilvie by her daughter Nellie. This was on Tuesday 6th August 2019 in Clunyhill Cemetery, Forres,
time past
poet silly, poet me
silly poet, silly me
Pupil.
I am a circle,
you are a
SQUARE.
I see shapes,
you saw
COLOUR.
You are the past,
I am
NOW.
The Street
the STREET
walked by
the STREET
where we live
the STREET
defiant of time.
[New post] N o s t a l g i a,
8:55 AM (21 April 2023)
Doctor, why are you striding about there?
The reality I had known no longer existed
The window attempted a smile
How do you seize the past? Can we ever do so?
The past moves only as a feeling
Memory is inside me.
ABSTRACTIONS
I had not lang been at school
already consideered ‘backward’
an my faither, in search o’ Abergeldie
had his bairns finding
aivry deid ‘Peter Gordon’ on
a’ the tombstones in the Kirkyard.
Aye, ther wis mony deid Peter Gordons!
An as bairns, we skipped wi’ glee
as we found wan aifter anaither!
I didnae oonerstan’ at the time,
I wis ‘backward’, ye ken,
sic a profoond lesson:
the reverse side of a’ words.
The abstract distance wis lost oan me:
my notes an self, alreedy Petering oot.
Nostalgias
We witness their own birth
they die with us.
S P E E D Y
My name is SPEEDY.
I am made of Time.
I was the OLYMPIA
of all OPELS!
I passed you by!
A Rebel adventurer
I have stories
Never to be Told!
Secret Shape of Time
It is early morning
Granny’s kettle whistles
She winds the grandfather clock.
It is lunchtime
Bonaly Primary School
I am ‘backward’, so I am told.
It is summertime, the school playpark
Tarmac is melting.
“What is the TIME Mr Wolf?”
It is holiday time
Tower of Glenstrae, Argyll.
I am with my Granny [I am her little helper].
Neon orange life-vests [with whistles]
Stored in the ‘Arts and Crafts’ Hallway cupboard.
The last year of school , Firrhill High.
For English, I studied the poem ‘Rainbow’
Higher A, for that
And in all my exams!
On the top deck of the maroon-coloured Number 10 bus
To Princes Street
To buy with my paper-round money
From John Menzies record department:
“Difficult to Cure”.
It was strange being dead.
I have already died
Three times
[perhaps more]
BEN CRUACAN
[I was not ‘Rough Proof’]
ALDBAR GLEN
[Tainted Love]
RUICHLACHRI
[‘a little bit of activity’]
