My mother knew I was a writer
Long before anyone else did,
Least of all
me.
When I was 7, she told me to write a poem
about
Flowers.
And I did.
And it appeared
in the school magazine.
Bitten by the lust
To see my name in print
I realised
that I must,
indeed, be a writer.
When I was 11,
It struck me one day
That the words that flowed from my pen
clever
phrases
catchy
words
elegant
descriptions
crafted
metaphors
(show-off
images)
Were actually
automatic.
And I pondered
often
on their
source.
So many years
have passed.
I lived through
a long, barren period
in which I never wrote
a single word
but spent long years
accumulating “Material”
(quite unawares)
on which I
could write.
And when I finally sat down again,
with pen in hand,
The words flowed
initially rearing and bucking
initially other
people’s words,
– and even now,
When my words flow,
smooth and beautiful and artistic,
swiftly clattering
out on the keyboard –
I wonder ...
Where do they
come from?
This metaphor of
the song bird on my shoulder
(for instance)
the constant and reliable companion
pouring its sparkling wit into my work
independent of
my meagre consciousness –
isn’t it something
someone else
has mentioned before?
