Copyright Urban Mole 2016
I was on the train recently, staring at the rails and the blur of sleepers between. If I very quickly moved my eyes against the direction of travel, I caught a glimpse of an individual sleeper and its neighbours; I was able to slow the flow of data just enough to pick out a little detail. Among the many boundaries of (human) perception, high speed, in the sense of a given volume of information over time, was hiding the little things. And making me boss-eyed.
Kipling, Rudyard / Wikimedia Commons / Public Domain
It’s chasmic, the fall of words down lines curved by the half open page to the black gulch below, where shadows form on sunny days or in the half light, oblique; at fifty degrees and cool as the cover is under the fingers on the other side of the world: fifty degrees and cool, the right angle for light and weather.
Copyright: Faber & Faber
A Kill‘s power is in its fifteenth line, in the only spoken text of the poem: “It’s a boy!” It’s a fulcrum and it prises the perception of a brutal, lingering death to show a birth. But it’s no gift.
Binker Golding (Copyright Karin Mora 2016)
London can never be silent. Like any city it’s a generator, always on, always on maximum. Doors and windows do little to dull the amplitude of its eight million residents. The sound translates to galleries and museums, whose stone floors and vaults echo schools of visitors commenting on and photographing everything. A brisk walk through the lion hunts of Assyria; a selfie by a butchered sequoia. Every mobile language on the planet sounding off.
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