THE INCOMPARABLE CHARLES DICKENS

It’s a privilege to celebrate in rhyme
The finest storyteller of all time,
The great Charles Dickens. That’s my view, at least.
His novels are a veritable feast
Of character and eccentricity,
Dark satire and social comedy.
They plumb the depths of vice and villainy,
Violence, murder and depravity,
Then soar to the heights of humanity –
Pity, compassion and charity.
Touched at times with sentimentality,
A blemish I can readily forgive,
The novels have endured, proof positive
That Dickens’ plots and his characters live.

His secret? He wrote about what he knew.
Young Charles rescued himself, one of the few,
From poverty. When he was ten years old,
His education was put on hold
When his poor father plunged deep into debt,
Committed later, his lowest ebb yet,
To the Marshalsea, a debtors’ gaol.
Charles was then twelve. Was he destined to fail?
This he dreaded. He laboured for a year,
In work that afforded him little cheer,
In a blacking factory, near Charing Cross,
Pasting labels on bottles. I’m at a loss.
Six bob a week he earned, day in, day out,
Grim and depressing, no shadow of doubt.

< Previous volume – Next volume >