Time was I’d board a plane with undeclared items of pure class A excitement. Each time a line rushed through my blood stream and exploded in my head “Man! Poetry put me here”. I was defying gravity like every poem I’d ever written. And like every poem I’d ever written the heavens opened and the big wide world unfurled. I’d consider scenarios to amuse myself before take-off like saying to a passenger my father was a pilot, and after a long pause, he died in a plane crash, then as the engines kicked in I’m coming home papa . This next story really did happen years go. It was a virtually empty flight and an air hostess sat next to me. We chatted and she asked what I did for work. I said I’m a writer. She said what does a writer do. It would’ve ben churlish to say write. I said I do readings. She paused, held out her open palms and said with earnest Will you read mine. It would have been rude not to.
Today I’m flying to Kenya to the Storymoja hay festival.