Autophony

Why am I a writer? Why bother pentameter? Why must ink stain paper? Why have I nought better? Than be a story-teller; Why am I a writer? While men earn and prosper, I am just a word-monger; Why must ink stain paper? I may be a great master Or just a poetaster Why am I a writer? Why mess with rhyme and meter, With plotline and character? Why must ink stain paper? Why not live a quieter Life of peace that's better? Why must ink stain paper? Why am I a writer?

They've put tin sheets around my house. That house in the middle of the city, built so very long ago by grandpa, when I was not even born, shall they break it down? The grills on the window, with the big sill on which I sat, watching suburban trains go past; and that window that never opened, will they break them now? That attic in which I could play, and not be found for hours; and all the sundry stuff in it Among which I was general, king or slave In a perfect fancy world, will they break them now? The kitchen platform with the burners, one for sacred, god-offered meals, the other for cooking abhishtam things, when grandmother was not around; and the shelves with old wooden doors groaning with sterling heirlooms, will they break them now? The tall wardrobe in the room on which my cousin kept things which I should not read; or the iron cot in the corner that creaked under grandpa's weight; or that ancient blotted mirror, will they break them now? That ancient wooden stai...