From A Poet To A Songwriter

From A Poet To A Songwriter 
By Paul McCann

I can still remember the night I became a poet . It  happened  so suddenly  . One  night  before  going  to  sleep I  felt  a  great  urge  to  write . Words  flooded  into my  mind  . It was as if Gods hand had turned on a tap of inspiration from in heaven that began to run through my head . I  got  out  of  bed  and  grabbed  a  pen  and a notepad  and  started to write like a madman . I  couldn’t  believe  what  was  happening  before  my  eyes   .  I  was writing the  most  beautiful  prayers  and  poems  that you could never imagine  .Born  was  the  poet  but  I  was  much too self conscious and so reluctant  to  tell  anyone  about the transformation from nong to poet . I now had a  secret  life where I wrote everyday and night  .  I  was  very sensitive  about  this  new  gift  and so  always hid  my  poems  and prayers in  my  bedroom  and under floorboards in the house . My life was changing fast and I was experiencing other things no one would believe . One  night  as  I  slept  in  the  attic I  awoke  from  my  sleep and  felt  cold  and  aware  of  another   presence  there  in  the  room . I sat up  in bed and glanced over  at  my  bedroom  window  and  felt  my  hair  stand  up . In the corner of the room I saw the  figure  of  a  strange  woman  dresses in a long shroud . She was there a  few  feet  from  me . She was motionless and just stared at  me   I  tried  to  scream  out  but  my  voice was  blocked . I was locked in  a  state  of  sheer  terror and  pulled  the  quilt   over  my  head and  just shook  with fright for a  while  . Eventually I  had  another  peep   to   see  if  the  lady  was  still  there  but  my  night  visitor  has  left  . 
The  next  morning  I   told   my  sisters  and  Mum  and  Dad   about  the  experience  of  the  night  before  .  It  was  hard  to  convince  my  parents  about  the  ghostly  intruder .They  said  it  was  just  a  bad  dream  and  there  was  nothing  to  fear  but  one things for sure I didn’t  want  to  sleep  in  the  attic  again  after  that   . All  my  sisters  seemed  to  believe  me  . Anyhow after a time away my parents convinced me to return to my attic bedroom . Well to my great relief I  was  never  troubled  again  by   the   apparition  nut it still was hard for me to feel at  peace  there  .As  time went  on  my  inspiration  flourished  and  my  writing  became  very  prolific   .  Throughout  the   entire house  in  Duneden Park I  scattered  my  poetry  .  Inside  the  gas  metre  box  and under  the  lino  , Inside  torn  mattresses and anywhere  I found an  empty  slot . They  where  my  little  treasures and I was very  protective  of  them  . I  felt they were part  of  the  house like bricks  and  mortar . 
When trouble erupted in Northen Ireland in 1967 . By 1972 the situation was out of control and my parents applied for emigration to Australia . We we accepted and given 2 weeks notice to leave .
I still remember the day the seven of us landed in Sydney with a suitcae in each hand to begin a new life . We arrived at Westbridge  Hostel in Villawood in a   bus  and  walked  on  jelly  knees and  dragged  our  jetlagged  bodies  to  the  office  where  we  signed  in  and  picked  up  the  keys  to  our  flats  in  our  new  home .
We  where  directed  to  an  area  of  the  Hostel  called  Gordon , and   as  we  walked  off  from  the  administration  building we  all  felt   the  same  .  Very  homesick  and  in  a  mild  state  of  shock , but  above  everything   a  sense  of  freedom  and  peace captured  us  .  No  sound  of  gunfire  ripped  through  our  heads , no  bombs  where  exploding , and  there  was  no  sign  of  trouble ..We  seemed  to  have  lost  our  way  to  Gordon  and  stopped a  few  passers  by  . What  a  shock  we  got   when  we  found everyone  we  spoke  to  couldn’t  speak  English  . 
In  a    new country  I  found  myself  beginning  to   write  in  a  completely different  way  .
A new writer in me  had emerged ,

As  a  poet  I read my works at Don Banks Museum . Canberra Folk Festival   , The Annandale Cafe , in Churches   , schools , on Radio and then I realised I could go a step further with my poetry  .  It  had never  occurred  to  me  before that  I  could  use  my poetry and  write  a  song  .    
I  could  play  a  few  chords  and  loved  music  and   the  suddenly the poet   became  a   songwriter  .
The budding musician   in  me  became   very  self  conscious  of   the  level  of  his skill  so I  took  on  some guitar  lessons  with  a  man  called  Fred  who  had  placed  an  advertisement  in  the newspaper  .  Every  Friday  I  went  to  his  flat   in  Auburn  for  an  hour  .  I  discovered  new  things  like  bar  chords  and  tempo  . I  practiced  at  home  between  lessons  and discovered  a   new  style  of  my  own  .  It   was  an  early  learning experience  with  the  guitar  and  one  that   I  enjoyed   .  After  about  six  months  Fred  was  moving  away  from  Auburn  and  told  me  he could  not  teach  me  anymore  .  It  was  then  I  asked  Fred   for  his  help  to  buy  a  new  Guitar  .  Early  one  Saturday  morning  Fred  and  I  went  into  Sydney  .  We  parked  the  car  near  Eddy  Avenue  and  he  knew  the  exact  shop  to  go  .   I  picked  me  a  Navarra  Electric  Six  String  Guitar  and  a  small  amplifier , I  went  to  show  off  my   new  instrument  to  Mum  and  Dad   and  everyone  was  all  over  them  . My  sisters  wanted  me  to  play  them  a  song  and  for  the  first time  I  felt   as  if  a  little  stardom   shone  around  me  . It  was  on   my  second  guitar ,  a   fender  acoustic , that  I  found  my  way  with  music   .I  had  plenty  to  say  and  sometimes  there  wasn’t  enough  time  in  a  day  to  write  to  down  the  thoughts  that   drifted  through  my  mind .  Although  my  experience  as  a  poet   and  songwriter   was   very  lonely , I   was  happy  to  exist  there  with  my  writing  . Since  arriving  in  Australia  my  writing  ability  had  grown  up through   blue  periods  and   a  mixed  set  of  circumstances    .  
 I   travelled  around  the  country  and  met  people  in  their  hometowns  and  captured images  of  Australia as a writer .  .  I  often  thought  that  the  world  could  be  a  better  place  because of writers and dreamers like me . 

The End   .

A Poet To  A Songwriter 
By Paul McCann

I can still remember the night I became a poet . It  happened  so suddenly  . One  night  before  going  to  sleep I  felt  a  great  urge  to  write . Words  flooded  into my  mind  . It was as if Gods hand had turned on a tap of inspiration from in heaven that began to run through my head . I  got  out  of  bed  and  grabbed  a  pen  and a notepad  and  started to write like a madman . I  couldn’t  believe  what  was  happening  before  my  eyes   .  I  was writing the  most  beautiful  prayers  and  poems  that you could never imagine  .Born  was  the  poet  but  I  was  much too self conscious and so reluctant  to  tell  anyone  about the transformation from nong to poet . I now had a  secret  life where I wrote everyday and night  .  I  was  very sensitive  about  this  new  gift  and so  always hid  my  poems  and prayers in  my  bedroom  and under floorboards in the house . My life was changing fast and I was experiencing other things no one would believe . One  night  as  I  slept  in  the  attic I  awoke  from  my  sleep and  felt  cold  and  aware  of  another   presence  there  in  the  room . I sat up  in bed and glanced over  at  my  bedroom  window  and  felt  my  hair  stand  up . In the corner of the room I saw the  figure  of  a  strange  woman  dresses in a long shroud . She was there a  few  feet  from  me . She was motionless and just stared at  me   I  tried  to  scream  out  but  my  voice was  blocked . I was locked in  a  state  of  sheer  terror and  pulled  the  quilt   over  my  head and  just shook  with fright for a  while  . Eventually I  had  another  peep   to   see  if  the  lady  was  still  there  but  my  night  visitor  has  left  . 
The  next  morning  I   told   my  sisters  and  Mum  and  Dad   about  the  experience  of  the  night  before  .  It  was  hard  to  convince  my  parents  about  the  ghostly  intruder .They  said  it  was  just  a  bad  dream  and  there  was  nothing  to  fear  but  one things for sure I didn’t  want  to  sleep  in  the  attic  again  after  that   . All  my  sisters  seemed  to  believe  me  . Anyhow after a time away my parents convinced me to return to my attic bedroom . Well to my great relief I  was  never  troubled  again  by   the   apparition  nut it still was hard for me to feel at  peace  there  .As  time went  on  my  inspiration  flourished  and  my  writing  became  very  prolific   .  Throughout  the   entire house  in  Duneden Park I  scattered  my  poetry  .  Inside  the  gas  metre  box  and under  the  lino  , Inside  torn  mattresses and anywhere  I found an  empty  slot . They  where  my  little  treasures and I was very  protective  of  them  . I  felt they were part  of  the  house like bricks  and  mortar . 
When trouble erupted in Northen Ireland in 1967 . By 1972 the situation was out of control and my parents applied for emigration to Australia . We we accepted and given 2 weeks notice to leave .
I still remember the day the seven of us landed in Sydney with a suitcae in each hand to begin a new life . We arrived at Westbridge  Hostel in Villawood in a   bus  and  walked  on  jelly  knees and  dragged  our  jetlagged  bodies  to  the  office  where  we  signed  in  and  picked  up  the  keys  to  our  flats  in  our  new  home .
We  where  directed  to  an  area  of  the  Hostel  called  Gordon , and   as  we  walked  off  from  the  administration  building we  all  felt   the  same  .  Very  homesick  and  in  a  mild  state  of  shock , but  above  everything   a  sense  of  freedom  and  peace captured  us  .  No  sound  of  gunfire  ripped  through  our  heads , no  bombs  where  exploding , and  there  was  no  sign  of  trouble ..We  seemed  to  have  lost  our  way  to  Gordon  and  stopped a  few  passers  by  . What  a  shock  we  got   when  we  found everyone  we  spoke  to  couldn’t  speak  English  . 
In  a    new country  I  found  myself  beginning  to   write  in  a  completely different  way  .
A new writer in me  had emerged ,

As  a  poet  I read my works at Don Banks Museum . Canberra Folk Festival   , The Annandale Cafe , in Churches   , schools , on Radio and then I realised I could go a step further with my poetry  .  It  had never  occurred  to  me  before that  I  could  use  my poetry and  write  a  song  .    
I  could  play  a  few  chords  and  loved  music  and   the  suddenly the poet   became  the songwriter 

The End