When I was (ca) ten years old I wrote what I’ve since remembered as my first
ever poem. I was with my dad at his work, a treatment centre for addicts.
Sitting at a desk in an office, with cookies and milk. And I wrote about the smell
of garbage mixing with the smell of lilacs. I just realised today, it reminds me of
a part of another poem:
April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
T.S Eliot. My man. The only man for me, when it comes to poetry. But not before
four years ago, and definitely not when I wrote my first poem. So it’s all just a
coincidence, that I should mention lilacs and mixing in my first poem, just as my
favourite poet did in his most famous poem. A coincidence.
Now aint that neat?