For a time, I used to keep getting collections of poetry as presents. For a time, I used to write poetry myself. I started when I was little. Sure, they'd be simple ABAB type poetry (for the uninitiated, ABAB is an alternate rhyme scheme) but I had a lot of fun. I remember my first poem was about cows. It went something like this:

Cows are good
They give us food
They give us milk
Which is smooth as silk
They give us meat
Which we can eat

... and so on and so on. I can't remember the rest. That wasn't ABAB but you get my drift. And I remember that by the end of it, I was feeling so proud of myself. That sparked off many years of writing. My most active writing years were from the age of 8 to 18. Somewhere in between, I attended the Creative Arts Programme only to learn that nobody thought I was good enough. Yes yes, so the other participants were mainly from RGS, RI and RJC and I was a puny girl from Fairfield. Still, I've never believed that the calibre of your craft is determined by the institution you come from.

In later years, my poetry became more personal. A good friend of mine wrote a poem called The Mirror and I wrote a response to it called Reflections. He said that if he ever got published, he'd place mine next to his because they went together. And I said the same thing. He was probably the only one I shared my writing with, discussing poetry at length. I think I'm starting to sound like a nerd. Discussing poetry??? Hell-llo?? Nothing a hip 18 year-old should be doing ;)

Anyway, I've lost most of my poetry. As in I don't know where they are now. I've also stopped writing. A major reason was that in my years in Australia, I could never find anyone who appreciated poetry, who wrote poetry or who even cared for creative arts, for that matter. And so, the ink stopped flowing. The inspirations were still there, make no mistake of that. I was still able to see the beauty in things and I believe I see special things in simple things. The childlike mind that looks around in awe and wonder at everything is still there. But that was just it. I was inspired but I could not write anymore. The inspirations were stuck.

I used to freak out that I couldn't write anymore. Now I'm resigned to it. I've since turned to other forms of writing - songs, blogs. I'll leave you with one of the last poems I wrote. This was written in Australia, inspired by the burning red autumn leaves on trees. I had already stopped writing for about 2 years then. The good friend I mentioned earlier said this poem sounds too William Blake-ish. No surprise though, since he's my favourite poet. Anyway, the poem is rather shaky, showing signs of my writing regression. It's like a terminally ill patient in the late stages of illness. It's sad but it's a memory.

As Leaves So Crimson Turn

As leaves so crimson turn,
So minutes steal away
And wander where we’ve yet to go
For want of present day.

As scarlet tears depart
The flaming crown of wistfulness
And fall in glory of long ago,
Of youth and verdure past,

So comes too quickly, time –
Astray, that tarries not a day
And chides the tardy soul who waits
In futile hope for May

Rest not, delay at peril of the
Dawn that waits for none,
And rest in comfort of the Son
Who shall in glory come.