Saturday, October 22, 2011
For hours he had been sitting on his chair, with his hands on his head and eyes closed. His notebook and pen lay in front of him. He had been thinking about writing a poem.A brimming ashtray ,half written and stricken sentences bore testimony to the sincerity of his effort. What could he think that could turn into a poem? He mulled over his childhood, his youth, his daily routine for some inspiration. Nothing poetic came out of it.He observed his surroundings. A dim lit room, faint smell of tobacco,books that he had read many times, a ticking clock, an old fan with a worn out bearing, nothing peculiar, nothing fascinating enough to make him pick up his pen. Perhaps his flair was in writing prose.