Written on, and relating to, the morning of the 2nd March as experienced by me leaving Rugby, Warwickshire, by train. I stared at the source and did not flinch, did not burn. Rarest of mornings.  Sights to waken the soul from forgetfulness. A delicate weft, a dissolving veil, exhalation of night, of earth, of day waking. Drawn up, made white, made silver, destroyed by the love of the perfect god. Flat, flat, disc, father of all discs, the first, the last. So seldom can mine see thine, such pleasure, privelege: how often in all one's life? But, the traps of being draw me in and draw me away (draw me down), So that all I can do is remember you, exalt, in writing (and hope for days of freedom). So slight am I, and you touch all, give all, rouse life wherever it is hidden. Thank you.  Thanks as complete, as deep, as by the first man.

by Karim Attia. I have just washed the horse-spittle from my hand. The tap-water was icy cold – I’m glad, it felt clean, not stale, idle. Cold lingers in my toes and the tip of my nose, But the house and its warmth have me now – memory, like cold, is fading. Hence this poem, if that is what it is. This poem must fail.  It cannot do otherwise. The unutterable is precisely that. This poem can be no more, no greater, than an index, a marker to say: ‘I once experienced a night of utter beauty.’ Words seem helpless. Light, more than anything else, more even than the cold: Light. I see the moon and surely it is white. I know white, so why am I unable to name the colour that the earth is touched with? Silver is trite; blue too simple; a blend not worthy. Either I am ignorant, or the colour has no name. I hope the latter, and that it remains so. Crystal water twinkles beneath me, crunching as I step, Step on shadows, step on light.  Tomorrow this will be grass, tonight it is something more. Ancient hospital of St. Cross. Young, unstained it looks – skin and shadow stark, relieved of complicated tones. Atop the tower a flag, the flag of St. George furls ...

by Karim Attia. The following is a procedural essay I wrote (1998?) at university for my 'Homer' module.  By no means earth-shattering and not one of my best crafted works, but the content may still be of interest/use. When did Homer compose the epics? According to tradition Homer was a blind bard responsible for composing both the Iliad and the Odyssey.  When he did this is uncertain, but a combination of references from various sources [1]  narrows the date down to sometime between 750-650BC. What period was he writing about? Hesiod states that the Iliad recounts a story from the ‘Heroic Age’ which he located after the ‘Bronze Age’ and before the ‘Iron Age’.  From an analysis of Thukydides a date of no later than 1196BC is derived.  Analysis of Herodotos gives a date of c.1250BC while scrutiny of his genealogies gives a date between 1126-1240BC.  Scholars during the Classical period believed the Trojan wars occurred between 1350-1100BC. From what period or periods do the epics actually derive? Two approaches are used to ascertain this.  One is by cross-referencing places, people and things mentioned in the epics with archaeological evidence and the other is linguistic analysis of the Greek used by Homer. Linguistic analysis tentatively suggests the inclusion ...

by Karim Attia. Veins of night wax upon the petrified river, Limbs mingle to arch and make way. Gibbous light dares only slight touch upon Grendel's meer, Makes black the pale corpses of summer's green children. Bodies thin and twisted a tale of joyless life, Numberless crows call this carnage home and bicker over the bones. Into the night they curse without cease until sudden silence. A door closes on the noises of the night. But whose grip upon the handle?