I tell of the lost hours
playing games – in the fun
of distant worlds, and words framed
from disappointment, another hour ticks by.
My disease is tamed, in a circle,
two remote hands edge, semaphore
to the knowing, ever closer,
nearer now then far apart…
…is it an element, Time?
or division of the moment, anticipation
over before indulgence:
convenience, or torture?
Dragging us onward, admonishing;
the wagging finger of electronics
or the old Grandfather,
monotonous, severe,
heirloom of the family, that ticks
over arguments
and the door that closes
for the last time.
Extract from Signs, a collection of poems by George Wicker
Our day is divided into arbitrary units, governed by the clock. In the past life was ruled by natural time, but with the Industrial revolution came working days, and hours, pressed on society in order to get the most out of workers. We no longer rise with the dawn, go to bed with the moon. Our biological clocks have been artificially shifted, with consequent damage to social and personal order. The fact that we can still feel these rhythms, despite the technological and cultural overlay of the seven day week and the twenty-four hour clock, is testament to their potency.
We need to feel more, and ‘wake up’ to the limits of the clock. My poem Time uses the clock as a metaphor to reflect on a personal incident; the death of a relative and the apparent closing of a physical door at death. In other poems I explore what lies on the other side.
More information about Signs can be found on the author’s website.