One day three years ago while sitting in my taxi, the words just
started flooding out.
I wrote about my life from the night my mum died some thirty years ago,
when I was 9.
A man called Brian Beedham who is now the editor of The Economist
magazine in England, read some of the passages sowed the seeds of self
belief.
The poetry has stemmed from a creative writing class I have started.
I wrongly thought that poetry was for ponces and people in grave
danger of disappearing up themselves.
It can also be for everyone else if written in a style they can relate
to. It's not just for the purists.
People who read my poems, that I leave on the back seat of my cab,
either ask me if I am going to try and get them published, or they say
that they don't usually like poetry, but they like mine.
