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

Left here

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?