For a very long time the respected novel
Has been lifted by my hands before my face.
Now its ink appears to be fading,
Its paper thins, flaking at the edges.
Now its margins seem to narrow,
Leaving less room for pencilled comments.

So many coming-and-going characters to track,
And those who leave, unable to return!
This tediously rambunctious plot to follow:
Perhaps it is a plot against me?  Restless, I squirm
In this uneasy chair.  The cat nestling by my thigh
Departs more often, nowadays.  I consider

Smashing the heavy volume to the floor, rising
To squash it with my feet and break its spine,
Abandoning the whole tiresome thing
On its fat face,
But there has been drilled into me
The concept of reading to the end, no matter what.

Hi Jonathan,

I like the conceit of this, and the way it progresses smoothly to reach its conclusion.

I thought the repetition of "Now" was a little distracting.  OTOH I pictured the strophe without it and then the repetition of "its" would be intrusive...

If I have a major crit of this it is a little too steady in moving towards the end, a change of pace at some point might liven it up?

HTH

Ian

Ian, thanks for your thoughtful message.  In this poem, I did want it to state itself rather quickly, to perhaps express the anger and frustration of the narrator.

Jonathan, a real pleasure to read, the literal narrative as interesting itself as the metaphorical uses you put it to. Tom

Is it age?  I've been less and less patient with poetry that seems to gaze into its own wordly navel. . . . Here I was hoping it was discernment.