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June 5, 2011

Dead Poets Society


"O Captain! My Captain! Our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! My Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up--for you the flag is flung for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead."

He read these lines over and over again, day after day. There was something magical about Walt Whitman that he could not give words to, something that gave him a celestial inspiration, something that reached into him and egged him on to write more and more.

He glanced at the scattered papers all around him.
‘Souvenirs’, he called them. 
Souvenirs that mocked him. 
Souvenirs that mirrored his erudite incompetence.

He thought about the recent novels that had been published. They all revolved around the same trash- technologically advanced world, about spies that belong to secret organizations, about children superheroes. He thought about the death of literature. He mourned for the world’s loss. He thought literature surely deserved a eulogy. He sat down to write one.

He wasn’t worthy enough to write it. He knew. But still he continued writing.

He wrote for hours, days, weeks. He never stopped.

He mourned though his words, he wept about the words that were no longer an inspiration to many, and he grieved about his cherished writers and poets. He kept writing.

But he ran out of words. He wasn’t tired. His pen still had ink.

But he had no words.

He laughed at the irony. A writer with no words.

It was rather funny.

He was grappled by a paroxysm of laughter. He chuckled and snickered. He howled and roared. He laughed like a maniac and tears began to flow.

In a fit of glee, he drove his pen deep into his wrist and watch the blood rush out like ink.
His hand jerked and he knocked over the ink pot. 
Red and blue merged together, giving rise to one of the most suitable metaphors.

Blood and ink, wasted.

All in the view that he had no words…



14 Mississippi:

Scribbling Gal said...

Wow just so perfect and something every writer might relate to :)
I love the way u started from some poetic snippet and built the story...
And loss of words do happen for writers and it makes feel as if something is dying or dying to bulge...a vaccum...

But yes the writers thoughts said so many truths...beautiful...

suruchi said...

my god...that was intense!
and i so agree on the death of literature!
those lines by Walt Whitman are my favourite too..somehow they always make me imagine a ship n a captain lying dead...so powerful is the imagery!

equally potent is the one that you have created Pavitra in these lines...blood n ink, wasted!
simply wow!:-)

Pavitra .... said...

@ Scribbling Gal:
Thank you so much sweetie!
I know its terrible to know know what to write....not have anything to say....all thats present is the urge to write...
Glad you liked it!
Cheers!!

Pavitra .... said...

@ Suruchi:
Hey hun! I too feel sometimes the loss of beautiful writers...the intensity of their words....

Those lines by Walt Whitman are really amazing...they are meant for Abraham Lincoln who was killed just after the civil war was won... and he couldn't be a part of the celebration...
Whitman is torn between the remorse felt by this loss and the unadulterated joy for the victory...
I really love the metaphors used by the poet...

Thank you so much dear...
Cheers!!

Chocolate Lover said...

eh. This is so awesome <3
loved it =]
And when I saw the title I was getting teary eyes lol. I actually cried when I saw this movie, "dead poets society" and from the past couple of weeks I was thinking about it and so yeah the title almost made me cry.

Btw you are tagged :)
Check out my blog =] <3

Blasphemous Aesthete said...

Alas, most of the poets are gone, the expression and prose lost to time. New forms of literature, which would otherwise not be called literature, are springing up and we are all busy praising them.

Very beautiful article.

Cheers,
Blasphemous Aesthete

Pavitra .... said...

@ Chocolate Lover:
Thank you so much sweetie..
Loved the tag...I'll surely do it soon...
Thank you for your lovely comment...
even I cried when I saw the movie...
:)
Hugs!

Pavitra .... said...

@ Blasphemous Aesthete:
Thank you so much! you're absolutely right...what we call literature today is not what was considered as literature before....
Cheers!! :))

Zeba said...

'He laughed at the irony. A writer with no words.'

I wouldn't have laughed. I would have cried. Tears of blood. It is a terribly tragic feeling. Having no words.

Lovely write up. The words flowed beautifully.

A good movie. Dead Poet's Society.

☆ Rià ღ said...

Those lines were so intense. Absolutely heart touching.

Jack said...

Pavitra,

Nice eulogy to dead literature. We have many books coming out but how many do qualify to be called literature?

Take care

PS : I had to read it twice before I could say anything. No visits?

Pavitra .... said...

@ Zeba:
Thank you so much sweetie! You're right...its an awful feeling to have no words...and quite ironic too...
Dead Poets Society...amazing movie!!

Pavitra .... said...

@ Ria:
thank you so much dear...Do visit more!

Pavitra .... said...

@ jack:
You're right...So many books and how many of them can be called literature... I'll be visiting your blog soon!
Cheers!!