a room with a view
I always made the excuse that I needed a room with a view in order to be able to write.
A view of water would score top points and amount to the best possible writing. I couldn’t not be a genius writer if I was penning something while looking out on the sea/an expanse of water, preferably not man-made (although man-made still got more points than no water at all). An elevated vantage point got extra points. Easier to do eye of god closer to the heavens, surely. Easier to be wise and witty looking down.
One of my other impossible stipulations was that I needed a writing space. Not just a desk. It had to be a desk with a view. But not only that. It had to be an undefiled area used for no other purpose than the higher purpose of writing. A virgin realm, used by nothing and no one else. No paying of bills. No sharing. A writing shrine.
(Fuck……. I did it again. This post went on, sort of a then and now picture, and then culminated in a poem, written about the view from my bedroom window, featured above. Fuck it all. Next time I will hit save compulsively. Or not type straight into a blog tool and hope for the best. But maybe I learn something about myself every time I write a mini essay and inadvertently delete it.)
The poem doesn’t mean much without my preamble. But I guess poems shouldn’t really have preamble, or vague apologies preceding them. I’m sorry but, I’m sorry but I will type it out once more.
There will not be a tsunami,
not with the harbour.
I can see the broken ribbon of shorelights
from the bedroom window
& flat chunks of blue in the daytime.
I can see the planes fly in,
depending on the chosen descent,
depending on the weather.
There may be an earthquake;
there will be many.
We live on a faultline in an old wooden house.
Even a spincycle vibrates in the piles
& from within the mattress.
We live in convenience with headphones and blinds
& I have blutacked freestanding objects to their surfaces
in vain, as a gesture
to our domestic god,
as an empty precaution,
as a mindful civilian.
Sometimes things smash & paintings twist
in the night. Some nights
the harbour lights
Filed under: poetry, windows, writing | 1 Comment
Tags: diary, poetry, windows, writing