A Magical Time by Ian Lewis Copestick

Brit Grit, Ian Copestick, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine

I’m sitting here and thinking
of when I wrote my first few
poems. It was a magical time.  It was a cold, cold winter
and I was working nine and
a half hour night shifts in a cardboard box factory.
It took me over an
hour to get there, and the
same to get back.
After clocking off at six
a.m. I would reach home,
frozen stiff at about 7:30.
At the time I was a pretty
heavy drinker, and every
,night before I went to
work, I made sure that
I had a couple of bottles
of the cheapest sherry
to drink when I got home
to get me to sleep.
I would get in bed, roll
a cigarette, pour a drink.
Drink it, smoke it and
repeat. Drink, smoke
repeat. Drink, smoke ….
Until I had
thawed out,  which
usually took me
about half a bottle,
then grab a pen
and a cheap
notepad, and all of
my tiredness, my
bitterness and pain
would pour itself onto
the page. I had no
control over it, or that’s
how it felt. The first
few times I did it, I
was so exhilarated that
if I hadn’t been so
exhausted from work
I doubt I would have
slept at all. There was
the proof, I was a poet !
No one could take that
away from me.
Although it took me
almost 16 years to
get them published,
I still feel as proud
today as I did all of
those years ago.