A dispossessed poet has no address?
Vagrant wordsmith finds himself lost for words?
Sunday morning solitude, more or less
A waste land; quarters apportioned in thirds.
Fractional allotments, absurdities;
Occupied tables, multiples of six,
Or four, or two; disputed territories;
Unilateral remedies, far from fix
An awkward treaty. Spaces between lines
Become expansive; attract attention,
Heightened meanings and hollow countersigns
Position the possessed in contention.
.   A poet in the margins, far from lost,
.   Far from desolate, with his words embossed.

© Tim Grace, 24 August 2014

To the reader: If you’re outwardly observant and inwardly conscious the creative mind looks after the assembly of a poem. Once the mind is in-flow with the general gist of a theme it will mix and match its contribution of frames and reference points. That’s all very well, and easier said than done; practice and discipline are critical components of the process – and that presumes a conducive space to write.

To the Poet: Rhyme inducing comfort zones are hard to find, and even harder to keep; context is everything. For years, I’ve sampled cafe cuisines in pursuit of an ideal writing ambience. For the most part, a hotel’s ‘breakfast room’ seems optimal. As a large enterprise, hotels usually offer an affordable option of ‘tea and toast’. With a passing trade, the regular change of clientele constructs an interesting sense of community; notable but not obvious.