philosophy

Water's Edge

Water’s Edge

A sunlit jetty, jutting out to sea;
a wall of rocks resist the lapping tide;
the Water’s Edge cafe is serving tea;
two tethered yachts are dancing side-by-side.
Waves absorb the jetty, drink to the bar;
it’s an all-day breakfast, a seafood quiche;
jelly-fish, tangled nets and caviar;
loose jib on the Cactus Wren breaks its leash;
a docile doberman lounges at large,
waitress brings him water in a blue dish;
father and son wave to a passing barge;
a day without limits… just as you’d wish.
. Today’s consumption will be time well spent,
. awash with moments, as were sort of meant.

© Tim Grace, 15 September 2012

To the reader: To the sound of gently lapping water I wander the coastal promenade; find an outdoor table; it’s perched at the end of a short jetty. With the morning sun’s warmth on my back I open my eyes to the scenery at large. At water’s edge, a cafe has delivered the first of many all-day breakfasts. Behind me two yachts acknowledge as passing wave. Eyes shift, a waitress is delivering a blue bowl of water to a black dog. Scene closes with a father and his young son greeting the black dog with a ‘good morning’ pat-and-chat.

To the poet: Light extends a poet’s vision into the realms of colour and movement. The crisp light of dawn is by nature poetic. With fresh aspect it exposes familiar forms to new interpretation. Dawn’s crisp exposure, fleeting as it is, delivers a lasting impression. Beyond an hour or so of rising its particular beauty is diffused to a general sense of mundane utility. The day is best seized by the touch of dawn.

 

 

Water's Edge

Water’s Edge

Brittle Surface

Brittle Surface

Then there’s the other playground, hidden
from the cast of eyes, from the field of view.
Given shape of whispers, a forbidden
terrain that no survey could map as true.
Due regard, a somewhat wise precaution.
As with a grain of truth in rumour’s mill,
this place has no scale of good proportion.
All things can be ground to a common swill:
’til there’s nothing left of confidence,
just the remnants of dignity, respect,
and honour; nothing but shallow pretence,
a bastion of moral poverty … wrecked.
. Play, ground away, under spiteful attack,
. Brittle is its surface; ready to crack

© Tim Grace, 22 August 2012

To the reader: As a school principal, I watched with horror the spiteful subterranean attack of girls on each others’ friendships. Damage to dignity inflicts a cruel wound; one that festers long after its initiation. The attacks were often highly orchestrated and finely targeted at a hapless victim. The remedy was to some extent exposure but humiliation of the perpetrator was fuel to the fire. Reconciliation was the broker’s joy!

To the poet: This sonnet was constructed to highlight the fragility of a playground. Designed with a sharp tongue in mind. An outpouring of emotion, prone to pretence and posturing. A string of words nuanced with nastiness. If you’re listening carefully there’s a reference to self-pity; an obfuscation, that distracts attention from cause and effect. The mere suggestion of ill-will is an affront worthy of indignation. Words just words… I don’t think so.

 

Brittle Surface Brittle Surface
Picture Source:
http://youtu.be/YYfxfudoE_k

 

Unknown Space

Unknown Space

There’s a lot of unknown space inside my head.
Grey matter takes account of what I know;
the rest is mere potential, adjusted,
ready to absorb my interests, to grow
in possibility, outstretch belief.
The nothingness inside my head withholds
information, sometimes allows a brief
glimpse at what might be. Just flimsy scaffolds
that bear no weight; hazy inklings at best.
Suggestions that do nothing more than hint
at provisional thoughts, points of interest;
obscurity with nothing as a splint.
. Is certainty the child of a loose joint?
. What becomes of nothing is a moot point.

© Tim Grace, 11 August 2012

To the reader: The ‘vast voluminous void’ of unknown space inside my head replicates the expanding universe; endlessly capable of absorbing dark matter. Conversion of this mysterious matter into grey matter (useful knowledge) is no easy task; before I know it I’m confused. In the face of quantum leaps I rely on established models of understanding to span the gaps. With insufficient trajectory I fall short of opposite banks and plummet none the wiser.

To the poet: In the tradition of paired sonnets, this poem partners the previous. Both reference the potential of empty space as a matter of intrigue. In the first of two, the topic was dark matter; in the second, grey matter came into focus. The emptiness of space as a metaphor for nothingness is the gateway into a look at the relationship between confusion and curiosity.

 

Unknown Space Unknown Space

 

angling

Angling

All I did was drop a line, nothing more
than simply give you cause to contemplate.
It was not my chin that dropped, not my jaw
that took umbrage; not me who bit the bait.
You could have let it go, let it dangle.
Instead, you gave it a tug, you tested
the line; turned what was slack into tangle.
It was you who floundered, then protested.
Nonetheless, you did nothing to resist
it’s ascorbic tang; and so, there you hang,
dangling from a string of words, a long list
of ponderings that promulgated pang.
. What lures fish from the safety of rocks?
. It’s the slightly plausible paradox.

© Tim Grace, 21 January 2012

To the reader: It doesn’t take much to create a fuss over a line of words. Retracting that string of thought is difficult; it gets snagged so easily. On a good day a contentious thought might be openly aired; on a bad day it becomes a most enticing deep-water bait. As it sinks a small school of fish nibbles its edges; but then, along comes a shark with far bigger intentions. Discretion being the better part of valour decrees the warranted loss of hook, line and sinker… one should never angle for a fight.

To the poet: This sonnet did follow an argument over the previous sonnet regarding silos. Why two people would choose to angrily debate the virtues of a silo I don’t know. Nonetheless, it spawned a good piece of purgative poetry. The poem has some satisfying sub-elements that I enjoyed merging into its deeper layers of construction; for later in depth analysis.

 

angling Angling
Picture Source: http://youtu.be/rG1xOUIykhY

 

grain of truth

Grain of Truth

There’s not a grain of truth in what they’ve claimed.
They have cultivated a nonsense, so
much so, the silo has been besmirched, defamed.
It’s been compared to a Balkan State, no
more so will I let this grievance pass
untested, unquestioned; taken as read.
What they have reasoned is simply a farce;
a mischievous lie, it has to be said:
The silo is nothing like a locked vault;
has nothing to do with isolation.
Through misinterpretation comes this fault:
silos are hubs in communication.
. Break not the silo, more strengthen its link.
. It is through the silo that systems think.

© Tim Grace, 18 January 2012

To the reader: The history of grain-silos is interesting. They date back to storage pits in Greece around the 8th Century BC. In a modern sense, they took their vertical stance in the 1800s; significantly, attached to a transport system. Understood as critical components of flow in an agricultural system, their virtual counterparts are much maligned in dysfunctional bureaucracies. An office that stores but does not distribute its information is mistakenly labelled a silo; it does nothing to deserve that label.

To the poet: Mounting a comprehensive argument in fourteen lines is problematic. Without much room for justification the point can be interpreted as a poke. Diatribes tend to be like that; one way polemics. In some ways a static container disconnected from further adaptation – a Balkan State! As much as you might disagree with my defence of the silo; there’s little likelihood of me responding to your rational alternative. You could, of course, leave a comment…

 

grain of truth grain of truth

 

One More

One more than many. One amongst the crowd.
Of all amassed, of all assembled,
you are the one of all who’s most endowed
with the touch of difference; unresembled:
uncopied, unmatched, unequalled; unique.
You are the diamond in a crown of jewels.
You are the highest mount; a lover’s peak.
You are the exception that breaks all rules.
You are the singular presence, where dwells
perfection, where at one point all things meet.
Within you perfect love is made, where swells
affection; through your oneness all things complete.
. At one with love you have tamed love’s thunder,
. you have brought to heel cupid’s brand of wonder.

© Tim Grace, 10 February 2012

To the reader: Being the chosen one is flattering. It’s nice to be given attention; to be drawn out of the crowd as something special. But quite a perverse honour if you’re an admirer’s anonymous obsession. More so, if you are the one that through compare is beyond compare. Do you actually exist, or are you an imagined tool that consummates desire? Is the relationship unrequited? No matter, the infatuation delivers a brand of private climax. (WS – Sonnet 154)

To the poet: Depending on emphasis, the meaning of “one more lovely” is quite different to “one more lover”. And there’s the invitation to play with words. In both senses the expressions are literal but have a figurative overlay that creates room for interpretation. So “one more – than many” can be a numerical statement offering infinite potential. Or, “one – more than many” can be a flattering statement offering distinction beyond the norm. Both interpretations are at one with my “one more” intent … (TG – Sonnet 155)

 

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