The Writer
The Writer.
When young, long before the computer was invented,
I rented a cabin in the north of Spain, serious and Nordic
I wanted to be a writer and brought with me a travel
typewriter – you will find one at a technical museum-
ready to stun the world. North of Spain is winter cold
the wood in the shed was damp gave off smoke and
little fire. Daytime not bad a frozen pond and a pair of
skates kept me warm. Nights, however, was cold till
a flock of sheep was seeking shelter I let them in, soon
the cabin was warm if smelly; mucking out in the morning
took times. Keeping company with sheep and ice skating
is not an ideal intellectual pursuit, to make matters worse
I had no ribbons – a sheep ate them-
Having read Ernest Hemingway I knew I had to live a little
and find my own way of telling a story.
Copyright © Jan Oskar Hansen | Year Posted 2014
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment