As much as work describes me,
I resist its total claim,
It’s one book in the library,
With others in the frame.
It’s not that I resent my work,
Or treat it with disdain,
I do my best, try not to shirk,
I tolerate its strain.
The daily grind, I grin and bare,
There’s value in its fibre,
But I keep in mind, that without care,
I’m swallowed by this tiger.
. With due regard and balanced ration,
. Labor hard and toil with passion.
© Tim Grace, 14 February 2011
To the reader: Time off work, an extended break, triggers the benefits of rest and reveals another side of me. The weight of expectation lifts, the daily grind softens, and the pace of life eases. How much of myself is defined by me at work; not at rest or play. Me at my most industrious; that busy highly driven self, is that the best of me. The non-working part of me is just as creative, just as inspirational but so rarely applied as my description.
To the poet: An investigation of self. A matter of I-dentification. How much ‘I’ will a reader tolerate. A poet is responsible for sharing ‘I’ statements that can be generalised. To extract any mention of self from a poem constructs an aloof voice Too much introspection reads like self-indulgent therapy. At some point there’ll be a happy ‘me’dium.
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