I grew up writing poetry in my formative teen years. I would often awaken from a tossy turny sleep feeling rather indignant about being awoken in the middle of the night. Before I even had time to think about it, I grabbed my notebook and pencil alongside my bed to write. I knew not what I would write, but I knew that I had to write. Something. Anything. I didn’t wait. As soon as the pencil point hit the paper, it started. Words formed on the page in quick scribbles. Bleary eyed, I continued to sit and marvel at the formation of a poem. Not a rhyming poem, but a free verse one. It all made sense and had rhythm and a beat to it. I felt I was coming up with the words myself. Boy, was I wrong!
There was no pre thought about the subject matter. No preparation about how to form it – just automatic writing. My hand did not belong to me as I sat, enthused at the words showing on the page of my notebook. Sometimes it made sense. Sometimes not. Poetry in motion about flowers – roses in particular. Castles, Kingdoms and much more. Visions stirred up in my mind’s eye of historic scenery that happened a time ago. Knights in shining armour and princesses awaiting to be saved. Even dragons of the fire breathing kind showed in my fanciful visions. Whole stories came and went in the instant it takes to blink. I had no idea where these verses would take me. Often they would end abruptly and I was left wondering what the urgency of getting it onto paper was.
Then there was the silence. Deafening, blank silence. Nothing. Oh well, I folded my notebook and pencil away and into my side drawer. Switched off the light and back to blanket bay Until the next night…
Ahhh… sleep once more with dreams, visions and memories of yesteryear.