Charles Dickens And Me Poem by Walter William Safar

While the wind outside screams at his highness Death,
Me and Charles Dickens are having a friendly talk,
Along with a glass of whiskey, our old pal.
'You were a famous writer even while you were alive,
And me... I am but one of many...'
I complained to my brother in arms.

'If you could choose between fame
And fancy, what would you choose? '
His voice inaudible to human ears,
But so very audible to a brotherly heart,
And the alcoholic haze
Hovering above his wise head
Like some saint's aureola.

Full of some kind of false hope I replied:
'Five minutes of fame wouldn't hurt inspiration.'
I clearly heard his laughter and his voice
Full of self-loathing sarcasm:
'Art is conceived in the soul,
And the soul knows no material math...'

'How can I touch the holy spirit of mother Art? '
I asked in desperation.
'Only your imagination can give you the answer! '
'My imagination? ' I repeated, looking at him
As if he was out of his mind, not out of heaven.

The old light bulb is faintly shining,
Gildening the face of my friend,
Who keeps looking at me so wisely,
And his voice travelling time and space
Like a timeless answer:
'Imagination is what makes a writer! '
'Does it? ' I replied insecurely.
'Imagination gives birth to inspiration,
And any writer is an orphan without it...'

'And fame? '
I asked him, entirely insecure.
'Fame is a thief, my brother in arms! ...
Imagination is all you need! '

Charles is enjoying the cigarette smoke,
While my heart keeps coughing.
'Why is imagination more important than fame? '
I asked him, entirely insecure,
Tightly holding on to a copy of 'Oliver Twist'.
'If it wasn't for imagination,
You and me would never have this talk! '
And in that answer I found the holy grail
For tired inspiration.