Shortlisted for the Writers' Federation of Nova Scotia Atlantic Poetry Prize
George Murray proves once again he is one of his generation's most accomplished poets with The Rush to Here . Diverging from the excess and declamation of his highly praised previous collection, The Hunter , Murray breaks new poetic ground in poems that are dangerous, sharp and glistening in both language and style.
Combining what the poet calls "thought-rhyme" with the structured sonnet form, Murray's philosophical curiosity and hardnosed intelligence emerge to create an off-kilter eye that somehow manages to be dead on target. As though looking out a window by which the entire world is passing, The Rush to Here darts through the absurdity of daily life to organize the mess and contradictions of modern society.
Relentlessly honest, elegant in form and language, The Rush to Here is an intimidating, eerie, but ultimately hopeful collection that sets George Murray apart as a voice for our time.
Murray was the editor of the literary blog Bookninja, a contributing editor at Maisonneuve magazine, and a contributing editor at several literary magazines and journals. After several years abroad in rural Italy and New York City, in 2005 he returned to Canada. He now lives in St. John's, Newfoundland and Labrador. In 2014, Murray was appointed Poet Laureate of St. John's, NL
Murray's 2007 book, The Rush to Here, a sequence of 57 sonnets, reworks a number of traditional forms (Petrarchan, Spenserian, Shakesperian sonnets) into a new rhyme scheme that employs what the poet refers to as "thought-rhyme", conceptual and semantic pairings that work on the level of synonym, antonym and homonym to create intertextual meaning, as opposed to the sound bonding of traditional aural rhyme. His latest book, Whiteout: Poems, was published in April, 2012.
Murray is married to writer Elisabeth de Mariaffi.
The unequal gaze like an empty page keeps me motionless, but also keeps me honest, anxious, docile. Nice and fortified.
Through evolution we've become so upright that we're nearly falling over backwards. This old stereoscopic erection
fine when rearing up to scan the plains each way for predators, but not so pleasant when the predators use it in reverse.
M. Foucault, I think I know what you mean when you say visibility is a trap.
You're think I'd be ready to ambush the power, but I still worry I'm being watched.
- The Unequal Gaze, pg. 22
* * *
Sure, there may be other universes, as many as there are options at all
given moments, branches from branches until choice becomes more bush than tree,
but in some ensuing universes most everything stays the same as in this one:
a butterfly tilts to another bearing, the old lady turns left instead of right,
you spend an extra night alone with the lust that keeps you lonely, and nothing new comes
of it, no catastrophic difference felt, no recognizable consequence made.
There are many worlds we can't tell from out own because some choices don't matter at all.
- Many Worlds, pg. 38
* * *
Silence is a dead language. Forward letters you don't want to deal with on to friends you know need the attention. Be bold: the sun's at your back down those dim alleys.
When you throw pieces of yourself into the world, do you consider it discarding or decorating? No gesture outside religion seems uncluttered enough.
What you're looking for is ingenuity enough to let ambition go: to find yourself building the simple, the clever, suddenly satisfied with what's appearing
at the ends of your much-surprised hands. Listen: the silence ends. Raucous applause.
A collection of mostly 14-line poems with several beautiful insights into contemporary life. Imagery is excellent, as is the sense of a mind thinking about what it means to be trying to figure out what it means to be alive.