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Open Letter
Preludes. A body of poems penned by the distinguished T.S. Eliot. I was first introduced to it, in Class XI-XII (11th-12th Grade). The waste, the drudgery, the melancholy. The isolation of the modern urban (wo)man, and the monotony of his/her life; Preludes was a skilled surgeon, that made a deep incision unto my young mind.
But from the first time i read it, nay, modestly understood it. ( There was a big chasm betwixt the two), Notwithstanding all of its qualities, there was a critique.
The palpable ubiquitous elitism.
For, `tis the monotony of industry, which makes the trains run on time.
The mundane, hollow and dystopian division of labour, is efficient, profitable, inevitable, and necessary even if ( and not necessarily ) evil.
So, herein I present Iceman Newton’s open letter.
I want to be a poet,
but, I cannot rhyme.
I am not that articulate too,
and, neither know much of grammar.
I am bad with speling,
and, suck at story-telling.
My handwriting’s bad,
and, I am hardly clad.
But of sad stories I know a ton.
