When I was a child I carved my name in the sand with my toes.
Later, I wrote tortured poetry, reams of the stuff.
It saved me.
In my twenties I was a musician,
and songs rose up and through me like tides,
like hunger,
like blushes.
In my thirties, I wrote press releases in Silicon Valley
and was very handsomely paid
thank you.
Now in my forties, I just write.
Emails to teachers, status updates, blogs,
and pages and pages of the unpublished novel of course.
Words are my common-thread, they are my signifiers.
Words are the bones of me.
And it only makes sense that someday,
what will remain are a few choice ones carved on a rock,
although my preference would be a tree.
Loving your work, dear Sara Bran. Please keep it coming.
Sara, today I received a copy of a book I wrote TWENTY years ago. It was a collection of poetry I’d written. My mum sent me photocopies of all the pages. I cringed reading it…so personal, so private. It was like reading someone’s secret diary. So, your words ‘tortured poetry’ made me smile. I know what you mean!