A Writer Longs For A Caring Reader Poem by Ananta Madhavan

He hopes to be known someday,
If he can publish without having to pay.
Must he be content to keep a diary,
Private because he is the solitary
Reader of his work? Let it be:
I have no ‘by-line’ and no infamy.

Scribble a thank-you note,
Or simply cyber-float
A formulaic e-mail
Just so as to hail
A Happy Birthday; or thumb an SMS
By cell-phone to impress
Someone to know that, despite
All the odds, he could compose and write
Something like prose in liberated verse,
Meandering, profound or terse.

He craves to ask his wife:
‘Listen to this, Sweet, my life,
You are my Audience.
If I recite my poem in silence,
I will be reduced to One,
A singular Audien.
She humoured him for fun.

He sees the city scramble;
Day and night some folk ramble
Child or crone, all on the move,
They have a beaten path or groove;
Some walk, some drive and go to work,
Which they can’t afford to shirk.
Do they envy him his easeful whim,
Waiting for work to come to him?