Once at the age of nine,
I was called to the front
of the class
Asked to write a piece
On ‘music that our life plays on’…
I knew the notes…the
arrangements, details
‘Simple!’ I thought.…
‘Creation should be new
every time.’
Mocking myself I turned a
page …
Pat-pat-pat. It was not
the rhythm of rains
It was tapping of feet
of the girls
Running, swinging, shifting
around the extensive compound.
Glancing at my teacher
whom I feared so much
I tried to concentrate. But, slowly,
What was straight I thought
Was not so clear and
straight at all…
No sand seeped through the
hourglass for half an hour
I was like breathing in
the depth
Of a cold December night.
Hush.
Well…it was all chaos.
With the rush of words
going nowhere
Inside all was a conflict
of despair,
in garbled grammar!
One line after another gradually
Broke my beautiful music
of flight…
Two feet shod in
slippers
shuffled with an impatient twitch and left.
Yayyy!
A noose around me unleashed; liberated me.
For Poet's United.
I especially like the tapping of the children's feet on the playground.......it is hard to unleash creativity when one is so afraid of the teacher. I, too, would do better once she left the room.
ReplyDeleteEnjoyed the little one's fright, conflict and freedom at last.
ReplyDeleteHovering teachers were a pain but worse was one Art teacher of mine that never left her desk, presumably hating to view our childish scrawls until they were handed up after the lesson ended!
ReplyDeleteYour poem reminds me of my school days when I was asked to write an essay or a story and all I wanted to do was write a poem! I especially love the lines:
ReplyDelete‘I knew the notes…the arrangements, details’
and
‘No sand seeped through the hourglass for half an hour
I was like breathing in the depth
Of a cold December night.’
I could visualize the scene and enjoyed the short poem.
ReplyDeleteIf you have inclination ,visit my blog for a story around Dakshineswar.
I cAn easily picture this. Love the part about no sand sifting through the hourglass.
ReplyDeleteThanks all for reading and for the comments, of course. I truly appreciate.
ReplyDeleteCalled to the front of the class is the least thing that most of us want, and your poem describes why.
ReplyDelete