The cave, the campfire, and the carnival.
Three complications, mine to be resolved.
In one, the cave, I am most comfortable.
Most myself, most at home, most involved.
Drag me from my cave, my favoured dwelling,
wrench me out of this reclusive hollow;
pull me screaming and ignore my yelling;
tow me to the campfire, make me follow;
wright me in the carnival’s raucous script;
place me with a crowd, put me on parade;
chain me to the mob – least of all equipped
to cope with this, and most of all afraid.
. I’m a caveman, that’s my disposition.
. Elsewhere, I’m awkward in rendition.
© Tim Grace, 26 August 2012
To the reader: In a social sense we all have a comfort zone; an interactive range of capability. In the cave dwells the ‘home alone’ introvert. Oblivious to external distractions, he happily crafts an inward-facing palace of private pleasures. His windows on the world are guarded lookouts; portals that provide protection as much as they do vistas over new horizons. His home is an introspective exhibition of self-sufficiency… he looks forward to your company, but rarely seeks it.
To the poet: I write from the vantage point of a cave. A metaphorical-mobile-cave that has no fixed address. The metaphorical-mobile-cave is appointed with modern amenities and adapts well to its surrounding conditions. In this sense, it’s a versatile-metaphorical-mobile-cave with its own sense of respectful hospitality. The cafe is my cave… a poet’s paradise.