Then and Now

In my teens and twenties I wrote poetry. Not prolifically but it was always significant and powerful as an experience. My father died when I was in year 11 and I moved away from Mum to Melbourne to study after year 12. Writing was a major form of release and processing of this turmoil as well as the normal angst of this age.  This is one of my earliest poem, so it's a bit rough and cheesy, but it still says something about who I was at 16, and therefore who I am now.

THE BOOK OF LIFE
[1988]

First words are tentative.
They are chosen carefully; they set the style.
First lines are precious
They hold an innocence of the predetermined script.
The next few paragraphs are dangerous.
Lack of thought and preparation can cause unforgettable damage.

The opening chapter introduces.
It explores, accepts and develops the character.
The second chapter questions.
It rebels, experiences, learns, hates, loves, believes, disbelieves.
The third chapter breaks out.
It expands, understands, identifies.


The questions are asked.
Whose fault was it?
The temptation to look ahead two pages is unfulfilled.
First pages are re-read.
To find an explanation for the riddle
To predict the mysterious conclusion.

A momentary answer is reached.

The story continues to progress.
If only the pages would slow down and wait until it is all cleared up.
Suspense is built,
New experience fills the lines
Detail is drawn, colour added.

The teasing blurb gives clues
But who really knows how the end will be.
Others that have read more
Offer hints and warnings
Rarely remembered
After the plot gathers momentum.

It is only when enlightening comes
That the give aways are recalled.
Satisfaction or disappointment of achievement causes purpose or despair.
Now is the time some look to other editions
Or determine to finish.
Decisions are made.

There are now more pages behind than before.
Some finish before all is resolved.
A lack of comprehension
Results are unappreciated.
Some understand completely
And can see the pieces falling together.

The last page dreaded or welcomed
It must always come.
The never-ending story does not exist.
Perhaps a sequel, or another edition.
The prologue is carved into cold marble
Detached from the story.

As I stand poised with another page in my ink free fingers
I want to examine every word
Search every meaning.
I want to do it right
Because I know one thing.
This is one book that can’t be re-read.