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Isles Poetry – “Out of Place” – Routines, Breaks, Resistance Training!

October 24, 2013

This is another poem in my collection, “Isles”.

Now about habits, routines, taking breaks from these routines, and fighting through resistance. What are your routines? Sometimes they are hard fought. Waking up early and getting to work on something. Sometimes they are such a habit, that they happen naturally. Often times we have had these routines but they have been broken.

This has happened often to me, and it is sometimes hard to get back into it.  Though a routine for me is the best for quantity…sometimes not for quality. My routine is usually to write in the morning after exercise and breakfast and during tea time…but after days of this routine under threat, what can I do? I become frustrated and it becomes harder to start again with a different routine. For me I try (try) to look at the change as a good thing. A holiday to improve the quality of my writing and focus on another aspect of writing, such as editing my writing, writing down ideas, putting physical copies to digital, and reading more. Also thinking positively that, although I am not writing, I am supporting that writing.

Those are a few points from me, though if you are really struggling two books, “The War of Art” by Steven Pressfield and “The Power of Habit” by Charles Duhigg are great books to help kick start you and give you lasting change.

Finally, I would love to hear how you mix up your routines…how do you break through resistance…how do you make the best of a bad situation?

Cheers and enjoy the poem!!

AJG

Out Of Place

The seasons have different names here:

Low and High, Wet and Dry.

Clean and Dirty. Easterly, Westerly.

The wind berates the island

pushing debris in from the sea.

‘How could you do this?’ Tourists scold.

How can the locals explain

that it’s not their trash

but others out of place?

The “big clean up” must happen anyway

as the High and Easterly approach.

They scour the shore

clearing refuse of every shape and sort.

Stacking it and burning it all

so that a pernicious cloud

stalks the brush and thicket.

This is where I exercise

another thing out of place

amongst the palms.

Picking a stretch of beach

to sprint, push and squat.

On every length I spot

some bottle brown glass and

fill a cup with the shards.

I face the sun reflected waves

breathing the heat,

feeling the sand beneath me

once tiny parts of something else

wondering about all the pieces of everything

from every corner of the world

that have washed up here

forever and before

out of place.

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