Why are they all here?
Row on row of intellectual battery hens;
Each alone in his own square meter,
The cages invisible.
Each alone with his own fixation.
Why are they all here, under their lamps,
with their piles of books
and sharpened pencils,
their regulation carrier bags
and their little pass-cards to prove that they are Readers?
Reading for Truth? or truths?
Turning pages
To prove a point?
To score in some Great Debate?
Seeking? Searching? Scribbling in the shush.
And tap, tap, tapping as they stare at their screens.
Coughing and spluttering, fidgeting.
Shuffling papers.
From curiosity?
For advancement? Preferment?
For glory? Immortality?
Because they couldn’t get a proper job?
From habit?
Driven?
No where else to go.
Safe in here, with the barricades of books,
Away from the world
And the wind and the rain out there.
Who will read what they write?
And who will know if they’re right?
And why am I here?
Am I a chicken?
Posts
6 comments:
Marc, I'm not sure that simply labelling that post 'research' qualifies it as work. However, nice to see some poetry from you. Modern, without rhyme or metre - scary stuff! And some nice thoughts. Now do some proper work!
And the answer to your last question is: yes Marc, you are a chicken.
Cluck cluck.
Rhyme and meter are asking a bit much I'm afraid. I was pleased with the odd hint of alliteration.
It wasnt intentional but my browser seems to be showing it double spaced, which seems appropriately academic to the context.
Um. Thanks, Lee?
I meant to say, jolly good spelling too. Except for 'meter'. We're not Americans, now, are we?
Speaking of poetry, what has happened to Wendy's blog?
Rach, I think Wendy thought it was all a bit too personal and so decided to delete it.
Best,
Marc
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