I wasn’t that happy in Class 1 at my primary school. I was target of some bullying (about which, more later)and was, as always in those days, struggling to find my place.
Every Friday afternoon our task was to find a poem that we liked, copy it into our Poetry Books and then illustrate it. If we felt able, we could write our own poems. I can still see the exercise book in my mind’s eye. The thing itself is long gone, my mother not having a sentimental bone in her body got rid of all my childhood stuff when we moved house in 1970. The very first entry was someone else’s poem, which I had obediently copied out. Not a great one with drawing to this day, I know my attempt at illustration will have disappointed me.
I have no recollection of what process I went through during the following week, but the outcome was that I bravely wrote my own poem. I’m pretty sure it was called ‘The Crinoline’ which figures as, even then, I was in love with the idea of wearing clothes which allowed me to sweep into a room. I must have received some encouragement from the teacher because each week after that I constructed a poem of my very own, until the book was completely full.
I recall a deep sense of injustice when one of the boys said I was lying when I claimed to have made them all up.
We seemed to do lots of creative writing in school in those days. Yet, once I went up the High School I don’t recollect doing much at all. Especially not after the first year. We were encouraged to write for the school magazine and also for the annual Speech Competition, but aside from that, zilch.
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