The Songbird on my Shoulder

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?