With a loud ‘Oh God!’ I begin this post, as serious as it may be,
An invocation you may call it, or frustration, to put it simply.
I stood before my book shelf watching spines just newly born,
Thinking what my favourites think, the ones now dead and gone.
From one genre to the next I went, (did I pronounce that right?),
To talk to the masters about book trends, and what was on their minds.
To see how books and writers have evolved into something new,
To see if we have grown new wings or bid them a quick adieu.
I noticed in a corner Chaucer stood with a knowing smile,
Could he have read the latest Humour best-seller on the vine?
He shook his head from side-to-side, confused me, then he said,
‘Winne whoso may, (my child) for al is for to selle.’
Amused I stood musing, when Dryden to Pope did say,
‘An immortal War with Wit’ wages the King of Satire today.
‘All Arguments, all arguments, but most his Plays perswade,
That for anointed dullness (nothing more), he was really made.’
Just then lovelorn Donne glided in, and a hand by his heart did lie,
Was this about the Love story readers swooned over, now swore by?
‘While I just managed to write an Elegie, to my Mistress Going to Bed,
Such love the writers must now know, to bring lovers back from the dead!’
The talk of Love disturbed his reverie, by the gurgling stream,
In walked Wordsworth, took a seat, ho-hummed to then proceed-
‘What Love you speak about, I just know not what you mean,
No trees, no sun, no Abbeys divine, of Nature books are clean.’
So many Thrillers abound today, who has space for a cherry tree?
Shakespeare looked as if he knew, adding mystery to the scene.
‘Oh mercy, droppeth from the Heavens now, and fall upon her head,
I saw that book’s end coming right after line 1, page 1 was read!’
Kundera’s political eyebrow shot-up in brave support,
Kafka in complete profundity said reading's ‘a trial’, no more.
Amitav Ghosh and Anathamurthy in a whisper together said,
Heads bent, shoulders down, a frown and then ‘Is literary nearly dead?’
While Lawrence winked and asked ‘So, they think they know all about sex?’
Premchand, Manto and Chugtai moaned their own legacy’s death.
Virginia Woolf woke-up from her dreams, only to think anew,
‘Why have writers closed all windows in what was once a room with a view?’
In flowing robes Homer sat till now - quiet, blind, unseen.
Till he roared ‘How epic! How epic! This glorious sea of mediocrity!’
Yeats wanted the gyres to turn, a ‘Second Coming’, a beast we need,
But Eliot, out of patience, shouted ‘Shantih Shantih Shantih’.
From me alone with my book shelf we had grown to quite a few,
Confirmed it was that Classic once may never again come true.
Alas! They vanished, one-by-one, those masters from my room,
‘Oh God!’ I sighed with loss once more, before I picked up the broom.
What you see below was a wise young owl, creative and with craft,
But in such pressing hurry to print, this smile he called his art.
What happened next is sad, so, so sad oh tragedy abound!
Just a wide-eyed face was left of what was once a wise young owl.
[Written for WordPress Daily Prompts : 365 Writing Prompts. The prompt for today was - It builds character - Tell us about a favorite character from film, theater, or literature, with whom you’d like to have a heart-to-heart. What would you talk about?]