Irony
(Response to someone afflicted with writer's block: the 'servants' are words).
Strange are the ways of fate. You complain
of servants turning hostile, intractable, mutinous;
of work undone, light unluminous.
You wonder whether you’ll be mistress again.
But I, alas, ail differently. Instead
of revolting, my wards divert and play
with me, and they would have their way
all the time: only, it’s me who’s dead.
***
Strange are the ways of fate. You complain
of servants turning hostile, intractable, mutinous;
of work undone, light unluminous.
You wonder whether you’ll be mistress again.
But I, alas, ail differently. Instead
of revolting, my wards divert and play
with me, and they would have their way
all the time: only, it’s me who’s dead.
***
Labels: poetry
Selected by SPECKLED_BAND |
11:09 |
4 Comments:
Not dead but in a trance,
Your wards doing their little dance,
Leaving tracks in the fallen snow,
Creating something called thinker's flow
-Inspired by an NY Times book reviewer who called an author's 20 year writer's block - thinker's flow!
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Pragya, it was someone else's block I was writing about :) But your little verse was lovely!
I can identify with you on this totally. Sometimes I get tongue-tied literally while trying to write.
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