Not an Attic, but a quiet room. 6 comments

15 Jan 2006 @ 15:56, by Maolcolum Bascher As in history. I once wrote in an attic. A large victorian house in Clapham. Though this attic was quite huge,with a single broken sash window, which I altered by removing the sash and replacing it with a casement window, so I could elbow lean and gaze into distance and sky. I have been writing for well over thirty years. In the main poetry ,but now I work on a novel. I have gained slight recognition, by accident rather than intent. Of late I have begun to publish on the internet, and I am building an on-line anthology, using my free web space. There are many works and many that have been destroyed over the years, including all the longhand scribbles that showed the build of a poem. What I leave behind me. Is not the mechanics of writing, but the thoughts from a Poets nature. I write only for its own sake, not for fame or recognition. And I write using a computer keyboard, rarely altering any work once it is written. Even now. I fall into another phase, where poetry changes into a greater maturity of human understanding. Within an absolute that is undeniable. Held tight by a measure that has no mark by which to rule. Such measure contains another absolute. That of an awareness of human content. I recognize my human role, as the measure slowly fades into a return into the debri of stars. As I begin so I end. Kernerewek Terrace. In the wild and windy weather The Gnomes are falling,one by one. Take down the coloured pots From off the parapet, Nip all dying flower heads. One long box, Has grass growing, and weeds! In among the Geraniums. Place it in a cill Within this quiet tranquil room, And let the grass grow long Something of an English meadow. for bare feet dreaming In an Autumn City. Kernerewek

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