It is a fact much bemoaned by writers in general, that they are not truly appreciated or respected for their art and skill. Whether that be scriptwriters, poets, journalists or copywriters. There is a premise that exists that if you are taught to ‘read and write’ at school, anyone can be a writer. No so. A good writer has to be able to change the language, feel, mood and delivery of words, not only to suit the audience they are written for, but to neatly slot into the nuance required. It is essential to have the ability to switch from humour to dramatic style, attention-grabbing and engaging advertising copy, to straight journalism and all the categories in between.
My career in writing began with poetry, when at the tender age of 14 years, I began to scribble verses of poetry which seemed to come from a space deep within me, a voice that had to be heard, words that had to take form. Poetry became a sort of catharsis, where deeply embedded emotions and thoughts would eventually bubble into my subconscious. Once the words were written, I felt lighter within.
It is fairly well accepted that “Creatives” are emotional and passionate people, so it is no surprise that on coming across a humble Indian Mynah bird that had been hit by a car and ridden over, my heart went out to this little creature, its life snuffed out on a hot summer’s day. This poem represents my catharsis:
Little bird with the broken wing
Saffron beak twisted and torn against a sawdust sky
Ravaged in the heat and dust of an anonymous highway;
No warm nest for you tonight little one
Nor gilded cage even, to arrest your flight.
Just this empty space
And you, crushed and bent here
With not even one sad song left in your delicately feathered breast.
Your life snapped away
Like some small twig on the tree of life
And no one cared or shared a tear
At the passing of your little warm body
Into the cold world of yesterdays
Where there are no new skies to cross
Nor drops of dew to savour;
Not a single fragrant flower or tree to call your own.
Sleep now little one
So still lying there
Tomorrow you will be gone
And no trace of the silver thread of your short life
Yet I shall know that you are gone forever:
But will there be any other
In this whole tragic world
Who will miss your sweet song
Amidst the chorus of all the others
That they don’t even hear?