When I was a teen I had a couple of English teachers who encouraged creative writing. These were woman who had grown up with The  Beatles and flower power , the sexual revolution and hippies and peace love and all that shit. On one hand they were I’m sure much more open minded and enlightened than their own teachers would have been but they were constitutionally allergic to dark and melancholic art. Where they wanted stories about euphoric love affairs and utopian sing alongs I gave them tales of air crash  survivors turning cannibal. Where they wanted optimism I wrote about my own death.

Yeah I was that sort of teen.

Yeah I’m that sort of middle age man.

They drummed the joy of creative writing out of me with a red pen, bad marks and a scowling face. I don’t actually have any of the writing from back then so I can’t judge if it was any good. Maybe I was rubbish, maybe I still am, but at any rate I was not encouraged .
I went on to 30 years of non fiction writing one way or another.
Well like the mould that keeps growing between one’s bathroom tiles the urge never truly went away , and as the 5 year anniversary of my dad’s death approached, the world rumbled along towards another dark episode of death and destruction and my work situation changed to give me more time , well the words started to flow.

Poetry this time rather than short stories. Why the focus on the end? Why are you not focused on the end?

Probably because you have children and a future beyond yourself. I have a dog and a policy of never dying before my hound. It’s in my terms and conditions.

 I wrote the following poem about Brian Bell who lived up in the council flats on Britomart St above the family home in Berhampore. Those flats defined the northern horizon of my world when I was a child. Brian was a local character and would rest on the ledge next to the Berhampore School Hall. My father would talk to him and tales of the Caxton Press and Baxter and Glover would ensue. Recently while staying in town I found myself resting in the same spot on a dog walk with an injured knee.

Brian Rodney Bell

When I was young and sprightly an old man lived up on the hill above me

He would labour half way up the ascent and rest on a ledge of ancient concrete

His tales were of our literary giants , fallen heroes of our national identity

His own part a footnote to history , no wikipedia page heralds his artistry

Now sometimes I find myself labouring half way up that formidable hill

And resting on that ledge of ancient concrete , the tides turn when one least expects it

The tide turned and I never expected it.

Brian died in 2000. Out there in the interwebs one can find an obituary for Brian written and then not read by Geoff Cochrane , one can also find obituaries for Geoff Cochrane who died in 2022. You get the picture.

When my father died it was after a decade of slowly then quickly being eaten by dementia. The last year of his life I didn’t see him as my presence sparked aggression in him. In some ways the slow decline meant by his death I had come to terms with things. But in other ways maybe I hadn’t .  

Well the words flow and there is no teacher with a red pen waiting in the wings.