Sonnet for a Stolen Mobile Phone
You were cuddlesome and oh! so cute,
Full of lively chatter and, sometimes mute,
Hours I would spend waiting for you to ring,
You were a universe in the joys you bring.
You spoke to me in several lingos,
Mallu, Hindi, English, Bambaiya patois,
Yet you departed so abruptly, without feelings,
Nary elations, greetings, or glad tidings.
Then one evening, I know not,
Who stole you from me, my Camelot,
Are your rings dead, are you still alive?
Has he de-SIM-ed you, do you still survive?
Please come back to me, I miss you,
Without you, I am not me, nor would you be you!
ermaine Greer has never truly been a writer. Her spirit has illuminated her written word as if the very act of expressing herself were but a brief, rushed gathering-up of her living. She is, perhaps, one of the marvelous letter writers of an age that no longer trifles with them much. Her essays, columns and books - transcripts as they are of a heroic heart and intellect - seem to have been dashed off in the fire and dispatched to her many sisters. Feminism as a literary family.
