June 13, 2013 by talkaboutyork
When I was nine years old, I wrote the poem below. In hindsight, it is probably not my finest work. But it won me a creative writing certificate, and as I blogged about here, it lit a fire within me to write.
What the wind does
Wind, wind floating around,
Over house tops, over the ground.
Playing in bushes,
Under the door,
Tickling your feet as it slides on the floor.
Spying through keyholes, slipping away,
Resting in gardens on a very hot day.
But now it has turned into a very rough gale.
There is sometimes rain,
There is sometimes hail.
It’s getting strong, smashing the pane.
But now I’m sorry,
It’s a hurricane.
And now it is raging,
Pulling up trees,
Shoving them, ‘Plop!, right into the sea.
Why am I sharing this?
Well my sister who lives far, far away sent me a piece of writing that her thirteen year old daughter wrote for a school project. They were shown a picture of a small, grey bird and told to write about it, but to include a twist at the end. I know that a lot of maturity takes place between the ages of nine and thirteen, but when I compare what I wrote above and what she has written, I can’t imagine that I would have written anything approaching this level of depth when I was her age.
This is what my clever niece – Alex D – wrote. When she becomes rich and famous, you can say that you read all about her here first. Ally, keep writing lovely! I hope this lights a flame for you.
For once, all was quiet. The sky was a painfully clear blue, the air was warm and the birds were still. I sat a top the hill, like an absurd little cake decoration crumbly with time and hopeless in creation. Disposable. The word rang through my mind like the steely toil of a bell. Me, supposedly the best commander under thirty, disposable. The generals words were harsh and had struck down upon me like a whip.
A tear cut down my cheek with the stinging agony of a blade. I let it be.
Pain was good, I needed pain. It traveled down to my jaw tracing my nose and lips, placing firery kisses on my marred face. I cupped my jaw with the tenderness of a mother, bone white against flushed red. The tear jumped lazily into my palm and rested there like a diamond against paper. I marvelled at the salty drop as it sat there not a care on the world. My heart pinged. Loneliness washed over me, as I wallowed in my problems.
A tiny flutter of wings broke my stupor and watched as a small grey bird lapped the tear from my palm. I chuckled. It was stupid really that I found an odd sense of companionship in the little bird. It moved quickly upon my shoulder digging its tiny needle like claws into the rough skin. I smiled, maybe I wasn’t alone or disposable. I looked at the little bird with a sense of hope smiling widely. It did not look up or move, it just dipped its little head into the empty socket of my left eye and took a long sip of scarlet, before fluttering off blood spilling on to its chest staining its little grey blouse with a splatter of human emotion.