Prompt 25 A Window Story

I have used 13 lines, a half-line, and a phrase lines from Tennyson to rewrite a story that I felt should have been, long ago. My words are the frame and Tennyson's lines are what you see when you look out through that window.

Part 1

The mirror cracked but the lady of Shalott

Did not die, she rose anon

She walked to the window and leaned out

Passing by was the bold Sir Lancelot

Part 2

"She made three paces thro' the room

....

She saw the helmet and the plume,

She look'd down to Camelot"

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;

From underneath his helmet flow'd

His coal-black curls as on he rode,

.... down from Camelot."

....

She saw him from her window there

"'Tirra lirra, tirra lirra:'

Sang Sir Lancelot."

"...Lancelot mused a little space

He said, "she has a lovely face.

'God in His mercy' has 'lent her grace'

The Lady of Shalott"

Part 3

She waved at him as he went by

In her hand, a wisp of lace

Sir Lancelot slowed down his steed's pace

The extent of her interest to trace

Her body leaned out from the arch

He could see her to the waist

Her cheek was pink, her blush no waste

Upon the air it fell, so chaste

'What' chivalrous 'heart could' her 'despise'?

He blew her a kiss, that softly fell

She felt, upon her bosom's cleft

"A sight to dream of, not to tell"

"I wish I was that window, fair

Maiden of this town," he cried

"I would have thee ever led

To lean on it and thus be wed

To a picture, fair as a dream

Ever, thy black hair fluttering."

She who had just escaped her dread weaving

Felt alarmed, was there no escaping

Up the stairs came Sir Lancelot

Behind her, as she looked down

From her sight, he had gone

His arms embraced the maid lovelorn

Forlorn for all these many years

Weaving her web, watching in the mirror her tears

His plume tickled her neck and removed her fears

She turned back from the window's frames.

Part 4

He gave her wings, she learned to fly

Far into the distant sky, through the window of delight

Away from the mirror, and bold Sir Lancelot
Away from the town of Camelot

The Lady of Shalott.



(References also to Gray and Coleridge.)

Prompt 23 Mirror (given by Lopa Banerjee)

PROUD TO BE ALL WOMAN

She stands before it

She lets her clothes fall

She lets her hair loose

Rich clusters of black snakes

Tumble down, open

Her shoulders are shapely

Her skin glows in the light

She hefts her bust to hold it straight

Her hands go to her thighs

She turns sidewards to see herself

Her back, her bum, her legs

The clothes lie in a heap from which

Out peep her two soft feet

She is altogether petite

She is altogether strange

Her eyes look back at her, smiling

She is a ripe orange

She stands there, moving now and then

She is her own star

She is her own universe

The moon, the earth, green grass

Spellbound by her self

She forgets all her cares

She loves herself just as she is

Naked as a child

She wonders at the power

That created her

She wonders at her own power

Pulsing at her sight

Not in her reflection

But in her flesh and bones

That is mutely echoed

By that silver door

That is there in front of her

She caresses her self

For one last time, and she sighs

Then stoops to pick up her clothes

Even then she is smiling

Watching in the mirror

Her cleavage and her fruit-like paps

When suddenly, dark falls

Then all she sees is a glimmer

A glimmer and a shimmer

All she sees is her beauty

Veiled, in the mirror again

In the light of the dark

In the shining night

There is no single stutter

Nothing in her falters

When the dark swallows her

She is still whole

She is always whole

Donatello - 3

22 Prompt - 4th offering - with Sunita Singh

Donatello

Donatella

Was she the one on whom you played cello

The woodwind whom you

Destroyed with voodoo

And regretting, made this

sculpture of her

a gesture of true

repentance at

what you had wrought

that would get you to hell

Donatella

Donatella

Donatello?

On Donatello's Mary Magdalene - 2

Prompt 22 - Second offering - with Sunita Singh THIS IS PENITENT ME That is not Mary of Magdalene. That is Donatello himself revealing his inner state of terror where there is neither male or female but only this febrile despair at one's complicity in the sins of the world and the self-wrought suffering with the art to make it possible to delineate it The angst, the horror, the torture the grief, the endless pain!

For the daily wage workers -an elegy

Prompt 22 - Third offering - Sunita Singh's prompt, done with poetic license. The sculptor is Bruno Catalano.

WHEN THEY NO LONGER GAVE US THAT DAY ON OUR DAILY WAGES

We set out from Karnataka

to reach Maharashtra

but died on the way

in the time of the corona virus

me, my wife and daughter

Years later

they made us this memorial

and to make it look better

gave us nice shoes

and fancy bags

& my wife, a shirt and pant

The truth was much less attractive

but one thing remains intact

the way we vanished

bit by bit

till all that remained

was my daughter's feet

my wife's right side

and last of all my head

The Sea at Marine Drive

mutely watches now

the memory

of us three

who died while going back

to a hovel that we had

but were never meant to reach.

April 22 TSL Prompt Write on Donatello's Mary Magdalene

Hear my cry

Hear my cry, O Lord

Attend unto my prayer

I came from Magdala, a city a bit far

to Capernaum, where the lilies grow

By mischance, I fell into the hands of a rogue

who took my virginity, promising marriage

and then, sold me for a whore to a brothel

where I was made

to sink into the pits of all debauchery

Men came and did to me all they wanted

to, in their perverted minds

and my heart

dark grew, I cursed them

You know one such as I

feels that she is to blame for their acts

for permitting it, for some bread, and some wine

to bring forgetfulness, as to what they the next day will do to you

I have lost all

and am lost now

lost my beauty, youth, lost everything to men

They say I am possessed and oft I fly into a rage

and no one can control me

then weep like one demented

Then I become depressed and speak no word

but after a while they come and rape me again, shamefully

Lost and wretched, I tried oft to end my life

but they keep me alive for their filthy profit, vile

I heard tell of thee, Rabbi, that you are one

who accepts all

the sinner and the damned

so I have come

with nothing in my hands

to give to thee my all

with nothing but these pangs

Will you also turn away

or are you also bad?

I stand before thee, frightening

to look at, that I know

but you do not know how frightened

I am that you will go

You also will leave me

You are my last hope

They speak of me with dread

They speak of you with hate

We are well met

Don't go, reach out, touch me,

forgive me, make me feel

at least once a human

as when I was a child, again

heal me, and I will follow thee

Though all men forsake thee

I will not, I am a woman

I will be your shadow

And in it, you will gain

the strength you've never known

I know you are the one

who will become more than most

If you will take me in

I will be found, no longer lost

Prompts day 21 TSL April 21, Prayer, Friendship (Given by Satbir Chadha)

Prayer is silence
God is Silence

*********************************************************************************

Friendship

I wandered through the desert, the hot sand burning my feet, in search of a friend.

I wandered through a garden full of the fragrance of roses and jasmine in search of a friend.

I wandered through a world of hail, snow and blinding winds in search of a friend.

The dust cut into my brown skin and red blood came out in drops in my search for a friend.

I flew far beyond the seven hills and four directions even to the skies, the yellow moon, the white sun, and the silver stars, in my search for a friend

I crossed the Himalayas and the Ganges and went far beyond all the blue oceans in my search for a friend.

I looked inside caves, I looked inside caverns, I looked into tunnels and gorges of darkness in search of a friend.
I have been to the poles and seen ice stalactites and stalagmites in my search for a friend.

I fell in love in search of a friend and fell out of love in search of a friend, thinking that friendship was the softness of touch, of taste, of fragrance, of kisses, of embracing hands.

I climbed mountains and crossed valleys, I walked plains and I went past villages, towns, and cities in my search for a genuine friend.

The ivy hung over the fence, the wisteria climbed the walls, time went by like life and death came closer while I still found no friend. I was no closer to finding a real, true friend.

Till one day I realized I would never find a friend, the only friend of the friendless is God and he teaches me to be the friend, everyone's friend, and never to look for any friend.

TSL PROMPT Day 21 April 21 Prayer (given by Satbir Chadha)

Prompt day 21 - Prayer (with Satbir Chadha)

She used to pray. She would just sit on her bed in her small bedroom and fold her hands and pray. She did not face in any direction, or faced any direction it was convenient for her to, though she said once to him that it was good to face the sun. A left-over from the Vedas. Sometimes with closed eyes and sometimes with open ones, she would pray, she would wrestle in prayer. Sometimes her lips would move and sometimes it would not. There was a lot of, a great deal of, intensity in it, a determination, will power, and sometimes a concentrated struggle, but at the end, a serenity would come all over her face, as if she had received the certainty that what she had asked for had been given, what she had to let go off had been let go off, or as if she had heard what she had been told (to do or not do) etc. Let go and let God. She looked most beautiful just after prayer. Her prayer reminded him of the ordinary picture that hung in front of his house, framed, of someone who had once asked the cup to be taken away from him but only if it was in the Will of the Divine. He felt safe at the sight, as he knew he was among those being prayed for, but he knew her prayers ranged much, much wider than that.

He, on the other hand, was someone whom he never saw pray, alone, but his life itself was a prayer, starting from when he got up in the morning, at 6 am to when he slept at 9 or 10. It was only after he died that he saw a video of him praying for all the family, a video taken for posterity's sake, praying out loud and it was touching how he remembered and mentioned each person and their needs, praying for so many people, one by one.

You don't need any building to pray in. The temple is your body. You don't need any name to pray to. You pray to the Supreme, the Absolute. You just say what you want to, ask what you want to, what comes from the Heart, from the depths of the heart, then relapse into silence, and listen, listen to the silence and sometimes, if you are lucky, it will speak to you, silently impress on your heart what to do or what not to do. what to say or what not to say, what to be or what not to be. Your prayers may or may not be answered but when you pray forgive all whom you think harmed or hurt you, whether they actually did or not, and let go off all your worries, anxieties, complaints, grievances, negative thoughts, hatred, grumbling and whining one by one to enter into peace and pray not for yourself but for all as you contain all, not differentiating between friend or foe.

You may use words sometimes or you may not but if you use words be specific. You may get what you asked for or not but persist in prayer till you reach its end.

Prayer, after all, what is it? It is a life like his, laid down or sacrificed daily, moment by moment for his loved ones, or a prayer like hers that is like a fire or a flame that burns down all negativity and gathers strength to build up after that all that is good in the world.

Prayer, after all, what is it? It is the holy land or place that waits for you to enter and remain there permanently with your shoes off in reverence, on bare feet, metaphorically speaking. Prayer? Prayer is poetry.

Napowrimo day 20 April 20 TSL Prompt "My mother, my best reader" ( A tribute to the writer Sara)

TSL PROMPT 20 (a lovely prompt by Udita Garg - thanks for this Udita, grateful!)

My Mother, my Best Reader (a tribute to the writer Sara)

I do not remember why but one day I set pen to paper

and wrote something, when six or seven

that included this line

"the moon is like a yellow plate,"

and my mom and dad took it

sent it to an international competition

Shanker's

for literature and the arts

and I won the prize

A silver cup arrived

with a book of illustrated Bible stories (so strange!)

and their annual book with my poem in it

along with art and writing from others around the world

plus a huge cheque

that was spent on going to Pai & Co

the best bookstore in Thurvananthapuram then, opposite Ayurveda college in those days, now no longer there

small but packed with the best books

with my brothers, sister, mom, and dad

buying me books that lasted a lifetime

Black Beauty, Enid Blyton, Tintin, fairy tales, folk tales from around the world and so many other books

that became my window to the world

and they put my picture in the Malayala Manorama newspaper

saying "Malayali balan sammaanaarhanayi"

I looked sweet and innocent with a smile

with my huge ears sticking out like Kafka's or Beckett's

Yes. My mom was my first and best reader

being herself a writer and poet, though she could only study till she became a matriculate which is another story

that led to me and my sister getting our Ph.Ds

She had made my two elder brothers and my sister

get the same prize too, earlier, to encourage us

start us off

in days when merit was still a term

that held meaning

for us lower-middle-class folk

and her encouragement

still holds me up

and led to us

having the writing streak even in our families

even now

so her grandchildren also write.

A reader who loves you

and wants to bring out the best in you

is that rarest gift

and makes a writer great

and we children had it in her

Such a gift happens only once

in a lifetime, perhaps

but once is enough.

It is made more poignant

by the fact that

she had no such person

in her life, to bring out the best in her

so she became that Light

to/for us.

20th April

So, for the prompt today, I hope you write an Ode to your most dedicated readers (who may be your admirers or critics, preferably from TSL family, though no limits) and also to get to know what do they exactly admire about your poetry and quote those lines from them in your poem. No, it's no mutual admiration clubs or coterie, you can also write why they hate your work and write one hateful Ode. 😁 This is no reader replacing the author as God either, just my attempt at making the reading experience here more meaningful. I hope you enjoy the conversation, thinking about your poetry and appreciating the people who read you. Gratitude! Prompt given by Udita Garg

Sundry poems and other jottings good, bad and indifferent

Glopowrimo #2 - from FB memories April 2 2017

("Prompt: transform the natural world into an unsettled dream-place. One way to do it is by asking questions – literally.")

The wall melts suddenly
Then I find it's under me
The devil is after me
Money takes to wings and flies away
My health is a pool at my feet that I try
To make freeze into a piece of ice and put back inside
My body. Someone has knifed my throat.
I lie on my bed stiff as a board
If I move I will be engraved
Too young for that, I do not stir
No dreams interrupt my ragged fight for breath
I'll get up and go for a syringe
A change of medicine will be, right now, just like a refreshing change of scene
It's death I am fighting but I am not afraid
We fought many times before and each time we failed
To bring it to any definite conclusion
It can still go this way or that like the walk of a drunken inebriate
As for God, God is silent as usual
I put a coin in the slot of the jukebox
And hear relaxing music, deep-sleep refreshing music
Sounds of Nature, something something Hertz (582?), but I forget just how much it was
For six hours or eight hours
Or non-stop Christian hymns
Or worship music that gentles
Or old Malayalam film songs
Or what my Dad used to play
Country-classic gospel songs starting with Jim Reeves
All listened to for healing when I am in my sleep
I put a coin into the cup of God as if I am begging him to bless me
I put a coin into the cup of the watchman, the one who stands at the gate, and the doorkeeper
Then I run out of coins so it cannot become thirty
Three is the number of the ones in 'Tolstoy's story'
I once loved a woman who probably loved me
Now she always and only lies to me
Whenever I tried to make the coin clink back in those days then it worked
But my fever I could not pass on when she twerked
Soon she was a tree and someone an axe
Who brought between her and me a tax
Of separation, a divide of contortion
A contraption of four legs that had no name but crawled
It crept into my blood like black ink in a cauldron
And as for all the others they were axed into perdition
By me, I who could not stand for an instant any key
That could set me up or put me down to be
To end a long story is to let it grow a tail
Am I sheep, pig, horse or donkey? I am unable to make avail
Of butterflies, sisters and three or four women in jail
I don't say it but I am pretty sure God is punishing me for my sins
I wish to stand up but when I sit down I'm on the windowsill
I look down, and the distance is too short to jump and kill
Myself. And there are no faces down there wanting me not to for me to get a thrill
And feel wanted. Just empty street. No kissing or whispering lovers, or songbirds trilling even, still.
My head was spinning and I was falling before reaching the end of the till
They may call it a suicide, but as for me it was just a home-run of the ill
A commonplace thing, when the pupa or cocoon

breaks, becomes a wet butterfly and takes to crooked wing.

Like Tinkerbell
Whom Peter Pan
Took and shook
For fairy dust
To fall on Wendy
So she could fly
Some giant Baskerville hound
With red fire spewing from its eyes
Took the world one day
And shook it
To free it of its lice

The stationary traveler
whose shadow was his friend
saw the cities whizz past him
while he remained still

All the places
he has never been to
London, Paris, Brussels, Antwerp...
all that jazz
all the times
he could not go to
all of them now went by
like scenes from the window of a train
- as a child, it had seemed to him
the train stood still, the places passed by
but the places were not moving
and it was the train that did -
while he wondered, stationary
travelling
why this plight had come to him.

In the past twelve years or less or more since I came to FB I have easily written at least ten thousand poems or more - lost count of them, actually. They are mostly lost to me but not gone as they are all there somewhere on FB. I don't know anyone who wrote as much as I did but I came across several people who are more famous and considered better poets than me in India and the only reason is better interpersonal and networking skills and better life skills and class, religion and caste in the Indian context. Now I have a choice which is to throw in the towel to admit defeat to parochialism, internationalism, regionalism, racism, linguistic chauvinism, and cliques local, state, national or virtual or keep going on and I choose to go on for the simple reason that I started writing out of a burning desire and love to write and out of a passion and inner drive and certainty that I am good at it and that remains and as long as it does I will continue, irrespective of everything and everyone else.

I am rewriting Marillion's song You're Gone's lyrics to encourage myself against all who took me for a ride to show I am not defeated but have risen up again and always will and to declare I owe no man anything except to love them and am in debt only to God:

I'm Gone

I'm gone as suddenly as I came to you
Like nightfall followed dawn without a day between
I'm gone and suddenly you can't see
You're in the shadow of me (2)
You can see me in your mind's rose-tinted eye
Somewhere I'm drifting by
My heels rolling sparks on the lucky street
While here are you left behind
Stunned and blind
But you can see me from there
You can see me so clear
I am the light
I am the light
I have the day
You have the night
But we had the early hours together
I'm gone, and heaven cries
A thunderstorm breaks from the northern sky
Chasing me back to the daily grind
I'm gone and where are you?
A haunted life
The ghost of my laughter
The half-empty glass
The half-empty glass
And you wait
Till midnight tolls
Two souls almost touching in the dark
You'll be alright
I am the light (2)
I have the day, you can have the night
But we had the early hours
We had the early hours
We had the early hours together
Source: LyricFind
Songwriters: Ian Francesko Mosley / Mark Colbert Kelly / Peter John Trewavas / Steve Hogarth / Steven Thomas Rothery
You're Gone lyrics © BMG Rights Management US, LLC

I need to judge yesterday's poems. But how can I judge poetry? Lord, I am not worthy. Take this cup away from me. Never the less not my will, but Thine be done.

I have lost track of the poems that came in on my humble prompt showing that it was, despite Santosh and Amitaji poking fun at it delightedly, following Sudeshna ji's superb poem, accepted wholeheartedly by you all as a community and worked upon diligently making it as much of a success as the prompt to write an epilogue given the day before by Mallika Bhaumik.

I read three kinds of poems here till now.

Ones on the prompt

Ones off prompt

Ones on napowrimo prompt

I also read three other kinds of poems here

Hurriedly written ones to finish (off?) The prompt

Ones written, to include some of the tracks

Ones written, to include all the tracks.

I read three kinds of poems, to talk about it in a different way:

Humorous poems

Reflective poems

Narrative poems

I missed some people's poems - and have messaged them as to why they did not give theirs.

I can judge poems in terms of popularity meaning numbers of likes.

In this case, anyone having more than twenty likes - let me tell you are on the top.

One of my personal favorites is Lucette Bailliet

Best inspirational poet remains Nidhi Popli

Vandita Dharni is probably right on top!

As is, probably, Santosh Bakaya - much to my dismay and chagrin! Hahaha. But what a poem! Great!

Popularity is not to be condemned. I have seen that while people usually laugh at FB, the likes and comments here, especially in a group like ours, is a sure sign of excellence and not just friendship.

Ambika Talwar's was a lovely nonsense poem.

Adi Adnan gets top marks for speed.

Rituparna Khan's was a very nice one on the sorrows and joys of being a woman.

Although in a different prompt, I loved Titiksha Singhal's teddy bear poem!

Amitaji wrote three poems at least and I enjoyed all of them, starting from the first classic one to the sarky one to the one imitating Sudeshnaji's style. Top marks for being prolific without losing out on quality.

Sudeshna wrote and rewrote her poem to telling effect almost killing me with her humor. I am afraid I will die of a broken blood vessel one of these days reading her poems and laughing.

Udita Garg wrote two lovely poems and the second one was word perfect.

So did Ritamvara and her second one was better.

Imran Yousuf always delights us with his ghazals and he also delights Olivia Hiddlebaugh Cool whose comments make me go back to his poem :)

Khurshed is a very valuable new addition to our group and a seasoned veteran it is clear as the two poems I read of his are lovely.

Mushtaque Barq sir is already acknowledged as a great writer in Kashmir and does not need my praise.

Jayachandran Ramachandran wrote a very strange but excellent poem in which he 'modifies' a fascist into the new author poet of the Mahabharatha.

I have been reading many of Mahua's poems and what she wrote yesterday was one of her best.

3 poems that really stood out were Nandini Mehra's and Anju Kishore's and Feby Joseph's. Along with Jagari Mukherjee's they gave me the most reading pleasure.

Geethanjali's poem stood out for its typical excellence in mixing Hinduism with poetry of a very high standard.

Pankajam Kottarath is a gem in our midst as she proves time and again by her poems, this one being no exception.

Bhuvaneshwari and Vineetha and Gauri and Sunita and Deepika are all excellent poets, the last three proving it by getting many likes and the first two by their high quality poems.

Elvira Fernandez is a delightful writer and always makes me read her for sheer whimsy.

What about Kashiana - she is the touchstone of quality.

Satbir wrote a very enjoyable tale.

Time would fail me to speak of all the poets in TSL like Snighdha Choudhury, Lily Swarn, Payal Agarwal, Nisha George, Smitha Vishwanath, Vandana Bhasin, Brindha Vinodh, Vidya Shankar, Suchismita Ghosal, Pragyan Mishra, Akash Sagar, Sarala Ram Kamal, Kalpana Shah, Vinita Narula, Geeta Varma, Lisha, Sunanda Bhattacharya, Deyasini Roy, Rohini John, Nikhat Mahmood, Sarmita Dey, Geetha Bharath and anyone else I have not mentioned due to only being a human being and becoming tired.

Last but not least Samrudhi Dash - what a poet she is! Along with Agnivesh Mahapatra, Sukanta Mahapatra, Sangeetha Mishra, Sujatha Mishra, Pragyan Mishra, Pratyush Mishra and Dev Mishra she makes Odiya poetry in English proud.

And Kerala? Zeenath, who else - what a delicately fine voice and sensibility! Sound! Only one poem but like an arrow hitting the target. I must not forget Akhila Rajesh here who writes powerful poetry.

I missed Nikita, Firdaus, Radhakrishnan sir, Sangeetha, and Rukhaya yesterday. Hope they did not post when I was sleeping. Just read Radhakrishnan sir's, clear in mind and thought and sober as usual.

Poetry cannot be judged, it can only be read, appreciated, critiqued, improved, made love to. Thanks for the love you bear for it.

A thousand apologies to anyone I left out - to err is human, to forgive divine.

Archana Zutshi - wow, all the tracks' names in order!

Antara Banerjee and Kabir Deb (epilogue) - brother and sister in arms I left you for last as I love you the most.

And I can never forget Sunil Kaushal's poems.

Never forget to read Precious Chilongozi and Debraj Moulick or Dominic Francis. Or Donnis Mathai.

And our new finds are Bilquis as well as Lubna and Aasia.

I hope you all liked my wedding anniversary poem too.

How can I forget Manisha Manhas and Sufia Khatoon - both superb poets.

I also like reading Er Shine. And Mehak Varun Grover who is very much a part of our community.

I will still read the ones coming in. Panjami Anand, for instance.

Last of all to be mentioned is Sabah Ahmed who always loves me.

Koshy av

TSL Prompt Day 19 - A light hearted poem

Prompt 19 - First poem on it

Three hoodlums were seen one day

On the streets of Hamelin*

Don't ask me why in thick, don't ask me why in thin

These three hoodlums were seen there one day

One was a Raven, black as soot

One, a pesky rat who cared two hoots

One was a Cheshire cat-in-boots!

In the background, someone played a pipe!

The tune was rather familiar

All of you must have heard it, dears

It was Dylan's, venting his fears

Singing in his manner, cavalier

"The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind"

The pipe kept playing, getting on my nerves

Harrowing, as the questions had changed

As, what the ****, we lived now in a land of new pervs

First, there was the pandemic

Corona virus, not one, but two strains

Second, the lockdown, strategic

"Twas enough to make you dash out your brains

"I wish I'd gone with the Piper", the pesky rat sqeaked

The Chehsire cat only smiled and vanished

The smile remained but the cat disappeared

"Nevermore" quoth the Raven, as of old

The cat reappeared, and the rat's smile vanished

"This is our chance, mates," the pesky rat intoned

"The whole town is ours, a giant playground"

"Nevermore" was all the raven replied!

They ransacked the shops,

They pillaged the homes

They looted the houses

They feasted on scones

The men whom they had all once feared

Cowered at the sight of the strange trio

The pesky rat told the cat the raven's name was Rio

The Cheshire cat or his smile grinned or alternately wavered

"When will we three meet again", the rat was found to ask

"If this pandemic blows over?"

Putting his paw over Raven's beak to cover -

To not make him say "nevermore" was such a bloody task

The Cheshire cat froze, for behind them was seen a hideous, horrific, horrendous figure

That of a woman they called the Mad Hatter

His smile vanished, brain in a scatter

"Nevermore" quoth the raven, its black feathers all a quiver!

The Mad Hatter, that fearsome figure

Had summoned them/conjured them up for a day from her lockdown tomes

To haunt the streets of Hamelyn and its homes

And listen to a pipe playing the same song, with an insane rigour!

I leave you here, my dear readers

To guess who this troublesome Mad Hatter is

Who is torturing us, and these three poor souls

The answer, my friend, still blowin' in the wind is.... 

19th April

The prompt for today is an imaginary conversation among the Cheshire Cat of Lewis Carroll, The Raven of Edgar Allen Poe and one of the pesky rats, of The Pied Piper of Hamelin, which refuses to be lured away by the Piper. The terrific threesome meet in the corona virus times and get talking.
The conversation is to be embellished by the refrain of The answer is blowin’ in the wind.

Prompt given by Santosh Bakaya