Storywriter

How old do I have to be to write a story about an old couple,

driving down that same lane fifty years on

sharing glances, acknowledged or unacknowledged

How old do I have to be to write a story about young love

to have experienced it, or to have long lived it

 

How old do I have to be to write about a place on a map,

about the concrete pavements, the stone-age burials

the spears, swords and guns rewriting invisible borders

How old do I have to be to write about people

the child with his phone and the child with broken teeth

 

How old do I have to be to write on what I’ve learned,

on the larval life, the metamorphosed adult, the old sod

the teachings of a cat, the tick bites and love bites

How old do I have to be to write about the things I didn’t do

right after the failures or after digging through their remains

 

How old do I have to be to write on the perfect sunsets,

those timeless longings, thoughtless meanderings

from city streets, the seashores, the rainforest openings

How old do I have to be to write on the perfect sunrises

over the dreams and the nightmares of the night before

 

How old do I have to be to write ‘been there, done that’,

eighteen, thirty, or sixty-two years old

is there even a number, a bucket list of experiences

How old do I have to be to write an ending to a book,

‘and they lived happily ever after’ or ‘so it goes’

 

How old do I have to be to write my mother’s recipes,

the minutes, the scents, the flavours

the whereabouts of ingredients, the colour of the flame

How old do I have to be to write about the Milky Way

with or without astronomy, without knowing the recipe for its creation

 

How old do I have to be to write about heartbreaks,

of short love, about long forgettings

should I not do it or read enough poetry to even attempt it

How old do I have to be to write about friendship

are they, too, counted, or do I go asking around before I begin

 

How old do I have to be to write on life’s hardships,

the ominous secrets, the bottled-up feelings

the times rage turned to cries and happiness turned to sobs

How old do I have to be to write about solitude

to say that I haven’t experienced would be a lie; a hundred years, perhaps

 

How old do I have to be to write about all those hopes,

shared glasses, ideas, ambitions

oh, those missed opportunities, if there were some

How old do I have to be to write about my dreams

should I even dare

 

How old do I have to be to write about romance,

the old man casting a net, the birds building a nest

the many moods of someone’s hair, the frying eggs

How old do I have to be to write about broken promises

oh, those reasons, those moments now hanging from a tree

 

How old do I have to be to write that old story,

that started and has long ended

is it lost to my younger self, or am I not old enough yet?