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A Book of Hours


This poem came to me after a visit to London, where I was thunderstruck by the  scale and beauty of the restored Reading Room at the British Museum. I was also wrestling with Existentialism at the time.



A Book of Hours


There was Time when its Arrow

flowed like a ticking clock


as it carved the future from the past

like a blind sculptor in one dimension


but, since there is no Now,

I live by reveries of hours,


each one a diegesis, each mimed

in chromatic silence;


an hour under the British Museum

Reading Room's golden-blue cupola


or a Summer morning's airing

through Russell Square,


Sartre in hand, floating in harmony

with singing birds


as, one by one, the hours

vanish in the freighted air.


In fading light

through smoky London trees,


where the wind kicks

crackled leaves at late commuters,


I fly

to where the river flows:


down East to the dirty sea;

the Thames, like me


and Sartre,

condemned to be free.



Christopher Hubbard



BookTimehoursBritish Museumfree

◄ Chris Hubbard @ Mont Saint-Michel

Ocean Wanderer ►


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Chris Hubbard

Sun 15th Jan 2017 01:54

Thanks Cynthia, and for your welcome to WOL. I really appreciate it (especially from this distance!)

I have a folio of eclectic and unpublished work dating back twenty years and more; it's taken me ages to get round to sharing some of them.

Your positive response, and others, give me encouragement to submit more, and to make the most of what WOL offers - on both sides of the world.

Chris Hubbard
Perth, WA.

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Cynthia Buell Thomas

Sat 14th Jan 2017 16:25

There is much to think about in this. The structure and imagery is very engaging.

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