The Newspaper's Ditty

Bundled, rolled, crumpled, creased,

Sodden, dog-eared, without a cease...

Now, possibly, just possibly; it is

A remote, yet scary, possibility-

Infested. To infect you. With the virus

That you fear. I arrive at your doorstep

Fresh from a night's grind, oven-ready,

On the whole, but thumbed over, several 

Times, in several places. As ancient as I am 

New. Sporting stories pulled out from archives

That don't need a second thought. Yellow journalism,

Red-tape-ism, purple pandemic pessimism, red fumes of

Anger from the irate citizenry, green environmentalism,

Brown, bare, bold jingoism- all the colors are stamped 

Over my thin pages. I am a rainbow- I am not 

Black and White, as I once used to be, in form

As well as in function. I am vibrant, bursting, eager,

To meet you. I love scrutiny- that's probably because

I have a virtually non-existent identity of my own.

I am merely the mirror, the glistening surface, to

The loud views, the charades, the propaganda, 

The clarifications, the interviews, the buzz,

The hype- I am like a smooth, feather-light 

Surface, that allows ideas to blossom through.

Nobody blames the newspaper- I am just a medium-

And the world knows it. They know where the news

Comes from. They know I'm impartial, innocent.

So I have no enemies- I am everyone's friend.

I am a friend that has been loyal, yet neglected,

For want of digital news. The turning of the pages,

The leafing through some articles, the stark disturbance,

Caused by a grotesque piece, the reproaches, addressed

To its writer, the re-reading of elegant sentences, 

The etching in memory of eloquent, priceless ones.

You do these with your eyes and mind, without the eyes

Burning, without the gaze shifting, without the fingers

Scrolling- you do this dedicatedly, and my non-digitization

Gives you this privilege. I am proud to be made of paper.

Thin single sheets completing the thick, booklet-like

Whole. I am proud of my authenticity. I am proud

To be delivering hope to the community when

I may be the bearer of hurtful, painful, ghastly news-

I am grateful, that people continue to think and write

Of hope and progress, and share it through me.

I imbibe the positivity of the writer and reader.

Where the writer has poured the angst of ruptured

Feelings into me, I have burned in anguish, and 

The reader, upon glance and touch, has seethed,

With discomfiture. When the penman or pen-woman

Pour their joy, gratitude, into my pages,

Wholeheartedly, I soak it all up like a good sponge,

And let it permeate to the other pages, which sing

Of joy, radiate with hope, even when bruised-

Thus the reader feels this pleasure throughout 

The read- it drains into the macabre articles,

The somber truths- it seeps into the celebrity gossip-

The positivity radiates from each end of me, infectious. 

I am powerful. I hold a cohesive collection, a mixed-bag

A combination of virtue, vice and the shades of grey-

I am versatile. I am the window for all the talent

That pours into me, the caricaturist, the humorist,

The satirist, the realist. I am their canvas, exhibition,

Inhibition, prohibition, all rolled into one.

I am the start to a wonderful new day. 

I am the source of your strength, the enemy

Of your ennui, I am me. Your loyal friend-

Who gives you space to rant, contemplate, 

Feel wistful- all at the same time. How wonderful,

It would be, if all friends were like me. 

I am the Newspaper,

And this was my ditty.