“Do you have a place you like to go to to write? Tell us about yourself, sir?”
Do I have a place?
As in,
a physical location,
or more metaphorically,
a place?
Historically there have been many,
as I reread words drafted so many years ago,
fields of battle that birthed a nation,
a ‘prison’ – symbolic ire of an expat
against a foreign land.
More recently,
I scribe in a cave,
a corner tucked away underground,
removed from the sun,
devoid of history and purpose,
yet bordering on lands rich with craft
and music
and memory.
But this place is of yet empty,
and I have no yet into its few cubic feet
poured any fluence of meaning,
nor instilled therein
the distillation of thought,
and thus gilded the walls with depth.
Today,
and yesterday,
I scrape the barrel of time,
eking a moment here,
a word there,
as I test this renewed bed
of poet,
something nearly forgotten,
comfortable as old shoes,
memories of prior works
that need mending
and modernization.
I do not have a place defined,
thus you read many remnant words,
as the birthing of new verse
is laboring under this dearth of resource –
a lack of time
and of devotion of space.
Although,
although,
I have built for myself a space,
and recently imbued it with mystery
and memory
and craft.
With my blood,
my sweat,
and my thought,
I have constructed four walls and a roof,
hardly guarded against the elements,
yet rich in inspiration.
I believe that I shall go there,
for as of yet,
no word have I there uttered,
nor recorded of my own.
It has been a place of physic,
of thought bent to creation of form
rather than thought bent
to the recording of perception.
Perhaps the time is ripe?
dtdeedge 