PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I wish that Elliot and I had lived,

That he and I had met and talked,

Many topics would have been shared,

Many perplexing questions solved.

We would have met and stirred up a chat,

Measuring our hours with coffee spoons,

Women would have kept coming, going;

Talking of Madonna and dull noons.

We would have talked of Alfred Pru-frock,

Of Titanic re-emerging from the sea,

Reviewed "The Wasteland" and the wall clock,

And women who go on a shopping spree.

I would have asked him about "ragged claws",

And his views on the 'Material Girl',

Would have mulled on the world and its flaws,

And how the Last Day would unfurl.

Would it with a 'whimper' I would have asked,

And I am sure, he would have agreed,

A booming doom was more likely.



I wish that I had met John Keats,

And learned more about the Grecian urn,

Would have sat atop a fast stagecoach,

And braved blizzards at every turn.

We would have talked of our Fanny Brawns,

Sung heard and unheard melodies,

Would have pondered on an ode to dawn,

And got stung by the biting breeze.

I wish I had met Emily Bronte,

And exchanged views on life with her,

High on the Yorkshire hills which,

The ghosts of Heathcliff and Cathy haunt.

I would have gone to Wuthering Heights,

And reflected inside its lonely rooms,

Why Heathcliff and Cathy didn't succeed,

And got a clue to Emily's doom.

Why she and Bramwell used to fight,

While Charlotte penned down Jane Eyre,

Why the misty moors of the looming hills,

Echo with tales of their despair.



There are some poets on the Eastern side,

Time with whom I would have loved to share,

An afternoon with the famous Ghalib where,

Friends share mangoes side by side.



Sought Khayyam in the wilderness where,

The poet found his own paradise,

Would have listened to songs by houris,

And sought the key to the great nowhere.



There are many others I long to meet,

Souls without whom I find incomplete,

This wasteland of materialism,

That I trample beneath my feet.