Young man.
E. A. Blair.
Literary genius
An uncommon flair.
Each page, inspired,
His soul laid bare,
Dystopia pondered
From his polished wooden chair.
He wrote of men
Who lived without a prayer,
P.S. Burton, the tramp,
No grace, no air.
The squalor of poverty
Before ‘Coming up for air,’
On ‘The road to Wigan Pier,’
As he breathed Southwold's salty air.
In Spain, he fought against fascism,
With those who’d fought the Tsar.
Treats despatched from home
Included chocolate biscuits and cigars.
Nineteen thirty-six, he’d enlisted,
Received a neck wound the following year,
‘thirty-seven' saw him Blighty bound,
Recuperation and warm Suffolk beer.
Prophetically he wrote of today
From a past place, way back there,
The current society's injustices,
those Politicos without a care.
Portraying Manor Farm animals
Once Mr Jones’s happy lair,
Napolean’s dreamed awakening
An anthropomorphous nightmare.
Farmers and farmhands ousted,
Justice rightly sought,
Herd searching for equality
Some more equal than they ought.
He wrote of a young Winston,
Mr Smith, in Room 101,
A life played out to camera
Surveillance, not for fun.
He journaled the hardship,
The misery that wouldn’t cease,
Unavoidable two-minute hatred
And O'Brien’s thought police.
EA Blair penned
Much. on the literary shelf,
Despite the angst of life,
He'd won victory over himself.
Thoughts to uncouple,
Thoughts he wrote to last,
Who controls the past controls the future;
who controls the present, controls the past.
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