I've come a long way since I cynically wrote a poem-by-the-numbers entitled "Christmas" for a Year 10 English examination: one part false emotion, two parts calculated empathy, all parts phony—but guaranteed to pass.

I did pass the exam in question, and probably a little too well considering my at-the-time loathing for the "fake emotion and insincerity of poetry", but, knowing the general state of the modern school system, and it's unfortunate disregard for things personal and difficult to empirically measure, it is more than likely that my examiner cared even less than I did.

Of course I did care really, way deep down and somewhat inarticulately, but it would be a few more years and maybe a few tears before I would learn that poetry is a child born only to speak the language of the heart, well written prose as well.

Aside from the painful, maybe formative but mostly painful years of my schooling, of which there's an equally painful stereotypical first novel yet to be written, I can report that I have grown to respect and admire poetry, and the poets who have lived and written it.

And writing in general—from prose and journalism to copy-writing and advertising, all of which I have done a little, although hardly a lot... yet.

Read on...