Just as a newborn
babe is a unique combination of heredity and environment connected with, but
different from its parents, written works are too a unique combination derived
from, but not limited to, the author's wisdom and cultural heritage.
The miracle of
fiction happens when you believe in yourself, and believe in the thousands of
years of traditions that reflect the human need to tell stories. You've
probably heard talk about 'formulas' and thought, "I don't want to follow
a formula. I want to write my own stories."
Genre conventions
are forms not formulas. Form is a structure. The traditional storytelling
structures are not meant to imprison, just hold them. Genre conventions are as
flexible and powerful as the imagination.
Me, I like to
delve into all written forms and often curl up with poetry, classic and modern.
The succinct stories they tell expresses lofty thought or impassioned feeling
delivered in imaginative words.
Like prose, poetry
can start from any seed. The following poem is one that touched me.
Left
Over
Odd, how when
abroad
We always slept
the other way round.
You on my right
Or was I on your
left?
Me the southpaw,
And you the dexterous
logician
Protecting each
other.
And in our own
beds, it was always
You on the left
or was I on your right?
An equal
partnership of power
Secure at home.
Now I lie awake
And you sleep outside
Cold ashes under the stars
And, on lighter
note, one of my own published works.
Morning
delight
I heard a kookaburra
this morning
In the heart of
a bustling metropolis.
Stirred from
that place between sleep and waking
Where fantasy
and reality merge
I heard it ring
loud and clear
Above the thrum
of rubber on wet tarmac
And, the clack,
clack of metal wheels on rails
Forming a ground
base to its song.
Noisy bloody
city husband mumbled
Rolled over,
Muffled the
sounds with his pillow.
Chalk and cheese
we are.
Amidst the
hustle and bustle in the waking city
I'm glad I heard
that kookaburra’s song.
Maureen Green
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