"That is my wife... And this is what I wish to have... look at the difference! ... then judge me... and remember, with what judgement ye judge ye shall be judged!"

-- Jane Eyre


It was a cold autumn night,
When the sky is deprived of the waning moonlight,
The clock struck, the bell chimed,
You heard a most otherworldly cry.

Awakened, you rose up from the bed,
Surrounded by curtains rendered to a darkened red.
Holding a candle, and the key from the pocket,
Without a sound into the hall you went.

Under the guide of the flickering flame,
You walked the staircase, the saloons and the hall ways,
And the drawing room vacant of cheerful chats.
You scrambled, you quickened,
Running away from movements in the shadows,
The sensation of being followed.
The place kept a secret.
It lingered, it whispered,
Of a savage form with thick black hair,
And a red dress bright as fire.

But he assured you it was nothing more than a dream,
A feverish, delirious dream.
Wouldn’t it feel nice to hold his hands,
To be consoled by those very eyes, and say,
‘I will love you and live with you through life till death’?
It was just a dream, my timid little thing,
A creation of your pure imagination,
(Yes, that was the explanation,
As things were known to happen.)
You have exposed for too long under the moonlight.

It was not real, the dream was not real,
Neither were the seas and the mountains,
The country called England,
The fire of the white men’s Hell and their salvation.
The church bell rang and you said, ‘I do.’
You woke up and shouted when you jumped off the roof.

The clock struct two,
In the dark corridor like a stone you stood.
You passed the looking glass,
And saw the creature who haunted this place.

This was the story of another side.
There was always the other side.
(‘You are not feeling well,’ he said.
‘Madness runs deep in their family blood,’ they said.)
You came to become nothing to him,
A doll, a marionette,
A mad thing without feelings,
A disgrace to be kept secret,
There was only one way to escape this cage.

The clock struct at the dead of the night,
The hour of fatality to bring on the grand finale.
Holding a candle, and the key from her pocket,
Out of the attic without a sound you went.

I️ do not wish you to Heaven
Nor do I️ wish
The fires of Hell
upon your soul,
I️ only ask the abyss
To grant you the eternal
Nothingness
Emptiness
Longing
Pain
That you had given me.
Sincerely,
Jane.

To get away from the TV set
and the cursed Internet
I sought refuge among the trees
and lunged in natural aired breeze.
I watched the orange setting sun
And clouds drift by. Oh what fun!

I heard a distant sounding moo
followed by some hullabaloo.
The sound of voices was clear now
they belonged to women, not a cow!
Two young women tall and fair
approached my grassy open lair.

Two young women in floral dresses
with auburn, curled demure tresses
and polished docile English air
having considerable savoir fair,
on the grass beside me landed
and a jewel casket to me they handed.

Trying my best not to sound rude
"Who is it?" I asked and "why intrude?"
One of them took my hand and said
"I have written the book you recently read"
"Forgive me” Said I “to not sound shrewd,
but pray tell me to which book you allude?"

The taller one again; the clear leader
spoke and said "oh dear reader,
my book was written in silent prayer,
the ****** of which you are aware
quotes of which, you cite with flair
I am the author of Jane Eyre."

"Charlotte Brontë" gasped I with glee
has come for a rendezvous with me!
My excitement no bounds knew
when the older one of the two,
who had hitherto watched silently
spoke and thus addressed me.

"I have written on sensibility,
sense,
prejudice, pride and providence.
I have written on layers of the mind
and family ties that never cease to bind.
I covered events both real & farce-y,
I am the creator of William Darcy".

"Jane Austen" said I with fervour
"I am your greatest admirer.
Your lucidity of language and verse
and the way your characters converse
have helped developed my writing style
which previously, I assure you was sterile"

"This is an honour, a considerable one,
But to deserve this tell me what have I done?"
"We are here to give you treasure
to improve your writing in measure"
I motioned to the jewelled basket,
"Is there something in that casket?"

"Does it contain secret notes?
unpublished poems and anecdotes?
maybe a magic potion or spell
That will make me write really well
Does it contain divine mediums
that will help me conjure idioms?"

"No" said Charlotte Brontë,
"It has what you need, not what you want"
I opened the jewel case with ease
expecting to find a set of keys
and so was nearly surprised when
in its interiors I found a pen

"There are no rules to follow
No magic potion to swallow.
Every accomplished writer knows:
there is no secret method to poem or prose.
So do not cloud your mind with fears
and write with blood and tears."

Birds around me began to stir
and the scene before me; to blur.
Was this a mere delusion?
A dream perhaps or an illusion?
"Remember to put pen to paper"
saying this, the women turned to vapour.

I woke up with a nervous start
and a wildly beating heart.
It was nearly breaking dawn;
I may have slept off in the lawn.
If the women were a creation of my mind,
how then in my palm did the pen I find?