Do
you know it's not really a good week to write about anything.
People
often ask (they don't ask me; why would they?) what a writer is.
Well
a writer is someone who writes – not someone who gets paid for it,
or 'sells' it or gets published – a writer is someone who writes;
and says something.
A
lot of writers write and they get paid for it and what they write
doesn't amount to a hill of beans.
Here
is the last part of the only poem I ever wrote; it's all I have to
say:
But
the writer was always the little fella;
The
little fella who had to meet the big bad bullies
When
he was at school; the big bad bullies
That
made him take part
In
their big bad bumpy games,
Which
would frighten the poor little fella,
At
that very early and tender age
When
all the boys had to learn to head the greasy orb
Which
they called a football;
Had
to go into that big bad world
Which
they called a school;
Had
to find out that most of the bullies
Were
the teachers: teachers who took great pleasure
And
unnatural delight
In
striking many a young child across the backside
With
their canes and slippers;
But
the little writer would get his own back
On
the big bad bullies for he would write about them.
Sometimes,
but not often, the big bad bully
Would
read what the little writer had written
And
knock the be Jesus out of him;
Break
his glasses,
Knock
the pen out of the little fella’s hand
And
burn his books:
At
four hundred and fifty one degrees Fahrenheit.
But
there was always somebody
To
pick up that pen and look up,
Up
towards the stars in the heaven
Where
they would seek the same stimulation;
And
the man with the pen would look down and give it.
Interpret
it as you wish and if you wish to hear the full text with picture
it's here:
