A Bloggers Urge…in a Dirge

A Bloggers Urge…in a Dirge

The urge to do some writing
Is really quite exciting,
Till you sit down to write
And then reality begins to bite.

Writing is no ordinary thing,
Nor is it just a casual fling,
Writing, to be quite fair
Is quite a serious affair.

What does one write about?
How will my lines come out?
These are bothersome thoughts
That precede our ideas or plots.

What form will my writing take,
Fact, fiction or amusingly fake?
Will it be in poetry, or in prose?
Will it be read or rejected, who knows.

The audience is somewhere out there,
Sometimes biased, sometimes fair,
Some may even not read at all,
Some will hate your literary gall.

What do you do with your creativity?
Where to publish, is a biting anxiety,
Are your words to sink without a trace?
Will there be fame, shame or disgrace?

That’s the time to start your writer’s blog,
And park the product of your literary slog,
It serves you well with your literary urges,
Go forth, `publish’ all your creative surges.

 

I am a netizen

I am a netizen, a different kind of citizen, I inhabit virtuality,
I live in cyberspace, I know of other place, that’s my reality.

My language is a bit vague, I seldom can write full sentences,
barring the oxymoronic virtual-reality, I have no further pretences.

I try to write, but I can’t get seem to get beyond 140 letters,
and not getting `likes’ on my tweets, gives me the jitters.

I don’t socialise, or have friends, or physically meet and greet
My existence is measured by how much I can retweet.

I abbreviate my words, my `the’ has become `d’, and I LOL,
because laughing in reality is not fashionable, it really doesn’t sell.

My soul belongs to the internet, my mantra is connectivity,
my friend is my laptop, its battery symbolises my longevity.

I e-chat, skype, yahoo, google, and love a virtual hangout,
I have friends and contacts lists of people I know nothing about.

I have voice over protocols, messengers, itunes and whatsapp,
my inboxes fill up through the day, though much of it is crap.

I don’t read, listen to music, or go to out to watch a play,
I live in a cocoon, and very soon I won’t know night from day.

I stare at the screen, waiting for my net messenger’s ping,
you know its been ages since I’ve heard a live voice sing.

I don’t come out to look at the sky, or watch birds in flight,
I don’t have to, I don’t need to, I have no need for insight.

The reason for why existence is to be in with what’s trending,
I never seem to move anywhere, though forwards I keep on sending.

For me a bird is an icon on twitter, my popularity’s new threshold,
did someone say, beware, all that twitters, need not be told?

I am a netizen, a different kind of citizen, living in virtual reality,
forever connected, yet when dissected, completely alone in this city

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Rajat Datta Written by:

Professor at Centre for Historical Studies, Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi

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