For over an hour I have sat,
Writing nothing on this page,
I’ve watched people doing this and that,
As they’ve walked across my stage.
In some respects a waste of time.
An indulgence poorly spent.
I haven’t paired a single rhyme,
I’ve done nothing of extent.
I’ve pondered nothing too absurd,
Nor tackled the contorted.
I’ve cast myself in roles preferred,
As here I’ve seen assorted.
. The absent-minded hour has its worth,
. It helps explain our time on Earth.

© Tim Grace, 4 June 2011

To the reader: Just before harvest time I presume a farmer contemplates; spends time thinking about the task ahead. Is my next poem a crop unreaped? According to Wittgenstein my desire to speak is to test a paradox. I propose relationships to explain my representation of the world; as a thought. No essence of language, no one truth in language, meaning is use, linguistic differences. Private language, thought precedes language. the language of thought … if you know what I mean!?

To the poet: Words – they don’t come easy. The translation of thought into ink on a page is a physical struggle that I enjoy. The scripting of ink, not pencil or key board, adds a permanency to the drafting process. From the first touch of ink, my poems are under construction; every discarded phrase leaves a record of my mental meanderings. Word-smithing wrought with wonder!

nothing of extent