Tribute to Malcolm Marshall, Purveyor of Pain

Storyline: Malcolm Marshall is considered to be one of the best cricket players of all time. He hailed from Barbados and played for West Indies. His life cut short from cancer, he died in 1999 at 41 years of age. This poem is a tribute to his life and play.

They say, life’s all but a mystery,
With many an hour of despondency,
For we work at when its light,
And dine when ‘Tis night.

Many a great men and women have lived,
A few of them, immortals; A few, mortals unbowed,
The rest, runagates from the clutches of life’s twinges,
For they hardly feel the desire to live in morality’s riches.

Ludwig Wittgenstein, in the Harrison’s book of medicine,
At his witting best, once said in a tone of congruence,
“Whatever can be said, can be said clearly,
Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one ought to remain silent.”

On a note of the above, I remember Marshall,
Cricket’s most revered speedster in a nutshell,
For he, was a gifted with a ball in hand with an agility,
As a campaign of unbridled ferocity.

Courtesy: stratians.com

Malcolm would run in as a flaming whirlwind,
Much to the agony of the beefing batsmen on the end,
If only to the delight of we, the aficionados,
Earning himself, a place in the game’s pantheons.

He was never a veil in disguise,
For his deeds often galvanize,
Cricket has been blessed with such brilliance,
That would glean us with ‘tis immortal presence.

Cancer, they say, is an excruciating sufferance,
That which, has taken away his panache in vengeance,
And pushes us to deflate at breathing,
If only to write an elegy in pain, writhing.

Malcolm, will forever be an enliven soul,
For his deeds are nothing but memories untold,
Now, he’s an idyllic in the high heavens,
And all I have for him, is an utmost reverence.

Regards,

A Pace Bowler in Disguise