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‘Creative’ Writing
Awkwardly, I walked up the slender steps.
The lecture theatre was full (a rare sight.)
There, at the front, was a bald man – talking.
Behind him, in large font, were the words:
‘Introduction to Creative Writing’.
I sat down and unpacked my things, eager to learn.
The man began by unravelling a scroll,
It filled the room – at least twenty feet wide.
‘This,’ he proclaimed, in an obnoxious address,
‘Are all the thoughts that went into the first
Two lines of my new poem. Look!’
And we did.
Every square inch was plastered in words,
All intricate, high-minded and vague.
None of them made sense,
But there were certainly a lot of them.
A lot of ‘thoughts.’
The rest of the lecture was a barrage of numbers.
‘Read five-hundred books before you plan,
A thousand before you write!
Read Joyce, Wilde, Lawrence, Wells, Poe, Woolf,
Austen, Kwesi-Johnson and Shakespeare.
Read the whole, damn dictionary – before you even try.’
Otherwise, there’s no point.
Meanwhile, we all watched this small man,
Jealously guarding ‘his’ craft from all those
Who sought to practice it, who dared to ‘try.’
There is no course that can make you an artist.
No syllabus to make you learn.
If you can write – write – it’s just that simple.
Speak whatever’s on your mind.
Whether you’ve read one book or a hundred,
Whether if took you five minutes or five years
Do it.
And you’re a writer.
And no one
In this capitalist ‘utopia’
Can ever take that away from you.
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