Lost objects: misplaced, dropped, or stolen;
buried; put down through absence of mind
Lost bravado: diminished, unswollen;
deflated; rigid support now declined.
Lost causes: with the best of intentions;
unfulfilled; promises stalled and delayed.
Lost rewards: accrue treasured dimensions;
benefits foregone; with bonus unpaid.
Lost directions: said purpose gone amiss;
somewhere becomes nowhere; set poles apart.
Lost investments: without jackpot or bliss;
shrewd can be clever; with losses that smart.
. Lost meanings: in the hand of ancient scribes,
. Lost cities: gone meandering with tribes.
© Tim Grace, 3 February 2013
To the reader: Lost is a location none of us set out to find. Technically, I suppose it’s as much a place as any other. Lost is where the misplaced gather. Lost is a nebulous noun that, through vowel-association, finds its place in the good company of: last, lest, list and lust. It’s origins are from Old English tongues, where it evolved from words associated with perish; as in gone missing.
To the poet: Being a pedant is not a poetic prerequisite; however, having a creative interest in words is a desirable attribute. Pulling apart, rebuilding and associating the word ‘lost’ sparked my sustained interest. Whether the pursuit and discovery was worthwhile I’m not sure. All things considered, I clarified in my own mind the difference between a lost object and a lost cause.
Sadly, one certainty of life is death.
And so, it is for all of us to end.
Somewhere, there awaits our final breath.
Inhaled, not for exchange, but to expend.
This breath, of all breaths, is to be remorsed.
It’s the breath most wasted and least returned.
Consumed for the purpose of life’s exhaust;
of continuation, it’s least concerned.
Somewhere, then, this final breath sits in wait…
to be swallowed deep but not ingested.
This breath has destiny; a half-used fate;
incomplete, resolute, uncontested.
. But for one-breath, we have life’s abundance.
. It’s through this-breath, that we meet redundance.
© Tim Grace, 3 February 2013
To the reader: Not breathless, simply exhausted of life. It’s the last breath taken and not returned. Delivers a terminal solution. The act of living is respiration. Recycled air; a generous spirit. Acts of goodness get taken for granted. We begin and end our lives with a gasp. Air is a rich and abundant resource. Not a trivial keep-worthy trinket. Not to be held for longer than needed. Its living purpose is spent and renewed.
To the poet: In ‘to the reader’ I collected together eleven sentences loosely connected to the topic of breath. Each sentence is ten-syllables long and follows on from the previous; but it’s not poetry. The difference has something to do with a missing thread of consciousness. The thread of poetry is tied by the poet and un-ravelled by the reader; one gives the other receives … together we breathe the spirit of art.
To all things my interest cannot attend.
I am responsive to movement, colours
and the scent of life; all things so contend
for my attention; distinct of others.
One thing for the moment will steal my gaze.
I take note of that which sways and swishes.
That which has rhythm to my interest plays,
so becomes the pick of many wishes.
I’m partial to soft tones that glow; that blush
the dull canvas with a rose-coloured tint.
I’m partial to that which is full and lush;
that which brings love to life with perfumed hint.
. I cannot attend to all things in sight;
. instead, I seek what gives my eyes delight.
© Tim Grace, 24 January 2013
To the reader: Programmed to attend to life’s rhythm; we literally seek and appreciate animation. Some movements have particular powers of attraction. The effortless ‘sway and swish’ of a wiggling-walk makes alluring theatre. The long-stride of confidence without pretence or contrivance draws attention. The nonchalant amble of a carefree character entertains our imagination. Powers of observation energise our interest; sharpen our focus.
To the poet: Infatuation lacks restraint. To ogle is obsessive. Admiration construes a connection. Polite interest requires distance, it respects the dignity of a shared space; eye-contact is confirmed not consumated. From a poet’s vantage point there’s a code of practice that applies to people watching. As subjects of interest ‘the observed’ will tolerate a casual glance; not so an intrusive gaze.
To a hillside, a crop of houses cling,
overlook a harbour; a city-port.
White-washed walls absorb a sunlit morning.
Train-tracks and traffic underline a thought.
Birds, gulls and terns, etch the sky with traces
of a coastal breeze; pelicans are drifting.
There’s a long wharf with cargo in cases.
Cranes begin a day of heavy-lifting.
Yellow bus gives way to a staggered start;
the zig-zag pattern of a day takes shape.
A city’s plan runs the way of nature’s art;
suburban portrait draws a cityscape.
. From the suburbs a cityscape is drawn;
. sunshine (as the artist) draws best at dawn.
© Tim Grace, 21 January 2013
To the reader: A new day deserves a fresh dawn. The shadows of yesterday cast aside. And so it was in New Zealand when I woke to a brand new vista. The harbour was already abuzz with import/export activity; an intermingling of nature and business trading terms of interests. The hillside-suburbs, slow to wake, were beginning to stir. Life resembling art…
To the poet: … and who was the artist? The sun. In every respect, this consummate colourist was controlling the medium. The pallet was crisp, not saturated, with cool blues and deep greens. A yellow hue was attending to dark remnants of lingering night. The solid canvas of horizontal swatches became animated with small features of meandering life … drifting, sifting; lifting the day on its way to a zenith noon.
Best at Dawn
A persistent wind, agitating dust;
careless intruder, unwelcome entry.
Full of bravado, a blustering gust;
unsettling a layer of certainty.
A persistent wind, feeding fuel to fire;
craving attention and demanding note.
Temperamental breeze, a funeral pyre;
no whimsy whistle works as antidote.
A persistent wind, a buffering blow;
cuts across the bow and ruffles feathers.
Strips a tree of foliage and Autumn’s glow;
this resistant fiend smites all endeavours.
. An ill-wind, the likes we all must suffer;
. should be endured with brunt or buffer.
© Tim Grace, 17 January 2013
To the reader: A cutting breeze strips a day of comfort. Each of the senses responds with agitation. In defence, we can either face the challenge or turn our back. To face the challenge requires head-on resistance; a regardless attitude that stiffens to the breeze. Turning-the-back is an obstinate show of defiance. Should we brunt or buffer? Somewhere between passive and aggressive there’s an appropriate response… ‘the answer is blowing in the wind’.
To the poet: It wasn’t until I began writing ‘to the reader’ that I realised I had written a sonnet describing Bob Dylan… a persistent wind. He arrived in the early 1960s on a gust of rising social awareness; and decades-on, he’s still shaking trees and rustling leaves. Now identified, I re-read the sonnet with the brusk-breeze personified; I have faced the wind.
In constant measure, at relentless pace,
makes meaningless: to stop, to pause, to rest.
For every endeavour an endless chase,
a continuous stream of life abreast.
If not one thing, another; all things merge,
detail is lost, rendered as a background blur.
Not something new, not a modern scourge,
simply this day prepared for life ‘du jour’.
Living alongside what has come and gone,
as to be repeated then multiplied.
Think of it as ‘de ja vous’, think upon
all things as one, where time and space collide.
. If time portrays no obedience,
. it qualifies as no convenience.
© Tim Grace, 5 January 2013
To the reader: In some respects, time is a container; a higgledy-piggledy box of events. Each day I select a sample of interests that I add to my biographical anthology. Unlike most boxes, this one is endlessly expandable; made of a curious material that responds to its content. It’s a durable, self-repairing material: water-proof, fire-proof, and wind-proof. It’s a permeable membrane, it’s an impervious membrane; it’s a membrane that forgets and remembers.
To the poet: This box is not a trap. When writing poetry, there’s an endless choice of material; content. Your sources are infinite; beyond experience, the only limit is the extent of your imagination. The poem (seen as a membrane) represents time: “it’s a permeable membrane, it’s an impervious membrane; it’s a membrane that forgets and remembers.”