I think that I am going crazy. I woke up this morning with a poem ready in my head. Sometimes, I think in verse. I am taking a short sabbatical from poetry. No more writing poetry. No more reading poetry. For a week, atleast. Except Ogden Nash, ofcourse. A poem by the master:
“Come live with me and be my love
And we will all the pleasures prove
Of marriage conducted with economy
In the twentieth Century Anno Donomy.
We’ll live in a dear little walk-up flat
With practically room to swing a cat
And a potted cactus to give it hauteur
And a bathtub equipped with dark brown water.
We’ll eat, without undue discouragement,
Foods low in cost but high in nouragement
And quaff with pleasure, while chatting wittily,
The peculiar wine of Little Italy.
We’ll remind each other it’s smart to be thrifty
And buy our clothes for something-fifty.
We’ll stand in line on holidays
For seats at unpopular matinees
And every Sunday we’ll have a lark
And take a walk in Central Park.
And one of these days not too remote
I’ll probably up and cut your throat.”
Infact, no more reading for a week. I’ll just stay on a healthy diet of Ogden Nash and American sitcoms that is appropriate for people in my age-group. An honorary mention of Sam-almighty for insisting that I watch “How I met your mother.” It is awesome. No other word would do.