I started writing when I was about five or six. I still have the first chapter in my book I planned about a horse named Darky, (alas never completed) . During my early teens I began avidly writing teenage songs - I suppose they'd be called Emo these days.
Sometime during the early 80s I joined the UK Writing School (cost me £120) . I did the first 3 or 4 assignments. They said you could take as long as you like - so I am. I didn't really hack the idea of writing for 'a market' so haven't got too far. At least I got the expense against my income tax ok.
During the 90s I began writing poems in earnest. The first one as far as I remember was called 'Sleep and the Quiet Peninsula’. It was to go with a show of paintings by the same name. There were another 3 or 4 pieces too.
From then on I have produced copious amounts of poetry and other works. Much of it has been self-exploratory, sometimes even agonisingly so, and often self-indulgent. Occasionally I have produced something really worthwhile for everyone.
My main work for income is as an artist (painter) . I also make music and still write songs at the age of fifty-five. They are still mainly Emo, although not so self-indulgent.
My granddad (the father of my father) was a great inspiration to me. He was an amateur singer and played harmonica. He didn’t write as far as I know. My mother however is a musician (all eight piano grades by the age of thirteen) and a writer. She writes a lot of poetry too; in fact she has at the moment over 150 pieces on this site – and rising daily. Apparently she is already in the top 500 searched-for poets. Her poet’s name is Fay Slimm. Mine is Steve Slimm – which is almost the name I was christened with.
I caught you at something yesterday -
Did you catch yourself?
I say this because I love you –
Because I can’t bear to see you stoop.
...
We are the shadow of an angel
Moving out across the land.
We are a foaming crested wave
Breaking in toward the sand.
...
I slipped momentarily between two dreams;
It wasn’t painful but I was aware.
...
A feather floats softly down from somewhere high in the rafters;
You pick it up and stroke it.
Its delicate fineness is remarkable;
Also its resilience and spring.
...