I wish I could write like Dorothy Parker,
Wendy Cope or Emily Dickinson;
Reality relieved by whoops of laughter -
Their barbs pointed and verse sharpened.
Wish I could describe like Bill Bryson,
My travels to lands far and near;
Love-story scented with cherry blossom,
‘The Lady and the Monk’ – Pico Iyer.
An Indian Enid Blyton would be nice too -
Magical folk on the faraway tree;
And mysteries solved by Chinky and Bablu,
Not scones, but samosas for tea.
Arun Shourie, once a mighty crusader,
Exposed scams and toppled governments,
I doubt I’d topple a glass of water,
Unless it shook from the force of derision.
Hemingway, Austen, Auden, Dostoevsky,
Let me not think of venturing there;
Even I must respect a boundary
Between wishful thinking and impudence bare.
I wish I could be Anita or Leo
With their ready verse and sparkling wit
Then we would be a triumphant trio.
(Your guess is right - Anita wrote this bit !)
But one cuts the coat to fit the cloth,
No point fretting over what I haven’t got;
To literature though I pledge my troth,
The literary muse – away he trots.
Zenobia D. Driver