Why Write?

By John McGregor

Why write, you say, now there´s a thing, did you ask the same of

Dickens?

The Bible, Shakespeare, Hardy – no writing, it just sickens
a world without those classics, our earth’s a poorer place
without those words across the years our lives would be so base.

Was it you, was it me, wrote words that struck a chord
over all the centuries, our pens mightier than the sword?
Who knows what lies inside us, who knows what we´re about
Our genie in the bottle – just striving to get out.

Laugh or cry the words enthral us, hooked in by their spell
The magic´s taken over – perhaps heaven – or even hell
we´re on our way to, transported by what´s written
So powerful it´s lurking in our minds, resistance has been smitten.

Maybe it´s really funny, transports us far from home
That´s good, it´s healthy – laughter – in a witty tome.
That´s a rare ability, to make sadness lift, perhaps
Moving a mind from darker thoughts, a temporary lapse.

Who is that story writer – who tells of woe and pain?
The one who wounds precisely – like now – and then again.
From blood to ink, then eye to heart, the circle never ends
The written word conveys the hurt – and never makes amends.

Who is this scary writer? And does he have a name?
Or is he here inside us? There’s no one we can blame.
He has that strange ability, to wound and sometimes maim
and doesn’t seem to care at all – just leaves us limp and lame.

He makes us think, he makes us laugh, he makes us want to cry
Been doing it for centuries, while we were born – then die.
And through us all, he writes it down, records it, truth or lie.
And some day one will read it out – that’s maybe you or I.

The writer’s craft has struck, again – the magic’s always there.
That ability to strike within – but who knows when – or where?
He strikes by day, by night, in bed or sitting in a chair,
writing for me, for you, for them – the writer doesn’t care.

He writes for black, he writes for white, he writes for old and young
The writer scores by word of pen – he doesn’t use the tongue.
For tongues can wag, and not wag straight. – the written word is meant
for heads and hearts – it’s written down – the magic must be sent.

So if you can, just write it down – see what the process brings?
It might be good, it might be bad: like cabbages or kings.
Who knows where it will take you, as blood flows through to ink?
Might build you up – or knock you down – perhaps just make you

think…

John McGregor is an English writer who now lives in Spain. He is a member of the Torrevieja Writers’ Circle.