I wish I were a poet

The crown of literature is poetry.It is its end and aim. It is the sublimest activity of human mind. It is the achievement of beauty and delicacy. The writer of prose stop aside when the poet passes.

–William Somerset Maugham

I wrote my first poem when I was in class II. Some over-patriotic-die-hard poem. If I remember correctly its English translations would be something like this: Oh my dear motherland, I want to die for you. I am full of vigor, My blood is fresh and new. I was so mesmerized by my creativity that the next moment I was standing in front of my Dad, holding a torn paper with both hands and giving a shy smile.

Dad was reading newspaper sitting on couch. What is it son? Dad asked.

Poem. I replied in a shy voice with my eyes locked at floor.

Dad took a while to read and then looked at me. Gave a bigger smile and said-

This is the best poetry I have ever read. Very good. Veeery good. But it’s a bit short to be published?

I don’t know what I was thinking back then. I went straight back to my room and actually wrote twelve more lines. It was a masterpiece. At least that’s what I thought. Four sonnets of four lines each. And rhyming last words. Sweet. This time I got aroused by my creative ability. I completely overlooked the loop-hole in this whole excitement. My Dad is a doctor. Anyone he knows closest to print media is our newspaper-boy. Till today it remains a mystery what he meant by ‘to be published’?

So my first poem remained unpublished. But I was still oozing with poetry. And I delivered my second one after two years without any contraception. A new family just moved in to our neighborhood. They had a daughter named Diana. I didn’t really meet her at first. One day I saw her returning from school. She was wearing blue and white school uniform and I experienced love-at-first-sight for the first time. I said ‘first time’ because it kept happening pretty regularly since then. Every time a see a pretty girl I fall in love. My love is not that demanding. I don’t expect them to love me back. Rather I am that kind where the boy keeps loving from a distance and never expresses his feelings for her. In fact I think I have become a ‘love-at-first-sight’ specialist. But the problem is I am a perfectionist. Perfectionists have this extraordinary skill of restricting their love only to the first sight. To them second sight is never as lovely as the first one, third sight is ‘okey-okey’ and sights there after gradually turn ‘disturbing’. Whatever, back to my story. Our first meet was heavenly. My thoughts went crazy once again. But there was a small hitch in our (secret) relation. She was in class VII and I was still in class IV. This time I ventured into a new genre of poetry viz. romance, and as usual I was bedazzled. Next day I waited till evening. There was a little park for kids in our block. She comes to that park everyday along with three other girls, also from neighborhood. We used play an indigenous version of hide and seek there. One of the kids will be blindfolded. Then everybody else will run in all possible directions. The seeker will count till five then open his blind and start chasing any one. The indigenous part was, seeker had to count till five while touching and in the mean time if somebody else comes and touches seeker then he has to start all over again. The other three girls, now with Diana, also used to play with us. But they stopped paying when they entered class VII. Now they have a group of four girls who sit in the grass and keeps talking. They somehow manage to keep it audible only to themselves. If someone sits just behind any of them even then he won’t be able to grasp a single word they are saying. Although the giggles were pretty clear.

When she was coming back from park, I followed her. There was a narrow lane which I knew would be empty. Once she was in that lane I fast-forwarded my steps and was walking beside her.

I said- This is for you. I wrote it for you.

-For me? But it’s not my birthday today?

I wanted it to be out-of-the-world. So I wrote my poem in a colored paper with sparkles and she thought it to be a Birthday card. Can’t really blame her. She took it and started to read.

-How dare you write that to me? I’ll tell your mom.

That was it. She kept her word. What followed was not at all pleasant. Soon everybody in my block started to call me Mr. Poet. Even my classmates in school also started to call me Mr. Poet. I had to bear with that name till my last day in that school. I changed that school after class V. I learned from my mistakes and never tried poetry since then.

NOTE: I think I figured out why did she react so brutally to my lovely poem. Most probably she didn’t like my last stanza where I rhymed her name- Diana with banana.

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38 thoughts on “I wish I were a poet

  1. My comment disappeared!

    For all you know, maybe she liked the poem 🙂 She had to make a fuss and complain – otherwise she would have been in trouble. It was a sweet, harmless gesture but we see boy-girl interactions as wrong, though we ignore a whole lot of real bad things …

    I hope you saved a copy of the poem! I would love to read both your masterpieces 🙂

    • Oh no. both are lost by god’s grace.
      second one she took with her for demonstration purpose.
      and the 1st one is not my fault. ask my mum- she was in charge of all my belongings then. 😛

    • @IHM: well, I doubt if she liked it 😛 If she had, it is necessary that she gives him looks(as in with contempt, anger etc) and is confused(at first) and thinks about it for a while and then either says a no or yes..

      Or considering she was so much older, she should have hugged him and said that’s sweet kid 😛

      @Ninja: I guess there is that something about older girls.. 😛 And truthfully it is more fun, you can bug them a lot and they can’t really do much to you(er..did I mention it is better to keep it one sided and not write yards of poetry?)..

  2. shruti says:

    I agree with your 4 sights of love…. feel the same! u must start poetry again… and post it with #hightweets… noone would complain if u rhyme goes like ‘diana with a banana’ then

  3. That was funny 😀 but trust me it was a good job at rhymes for sure 😉
    I have never been good at poetry writing, though I did try writing one on so many occasions but haven’t succeeded at writing anything readable 😦

    Keep up the good work 😀

    I enjoyed my first visit to your blog 🙂

    Cheers!!

  4. Congrats on the Tangy Tuesday pick. That was totally hilarious :D. I too remember the good old days when I believed that getting stuff to rhyme was the key to being a poet. When I realized it wasn’t so, well I ain’t a poet no more 😀

  5. Hahaha..Mr. Perfectionist, that was brilliant!!!;-D
    “Diana with banana”, thank God you keptt Dalai Lama out of this..
    First-time here..I think I would enjoy your older posts too. Will read 🙂

    Cheers.

  6. wow! thats so sweet.. reminds me of something similar that happend to me.. adolescence! hehe.. nice work..keep it up dude.. by the way.. where are the two masterpieces? 😉

  7. In the fourth standard, part of Hindi homework was an essay on Sawan. Now I did NOT want the plebian phrases I was already bored of hearing, let alone writing!
    Thus began my foray into hard-hitting research.
    I asked my father about sawan, “any special flora and fauna that you associates with sawan?”
    “Go ask your mother. To me, I just see a lot of grass and the cows that eat it. Flora and fauna… grumblemumblegrumble. Go bother your mother.”
    So I went and bothered my mother.
    The best soundbites I got from her were “You just DONT get vegetables during the monsoon…. baingan, more baingan, still more baingan. Ugh!”

    The teacher could assuage the bile rising in her literary tract with the rest of the essay. The bits she found it hard to reconcile to included my original research that read, “sawan main ghas ugti hai jo gai kha jaati hai, aur baingan ugte hain jo hum kha jaate hain.”

    I think my mother still has the essay. She was called in to personally collect it from the Hindi teacher, alongwith some choice words. She figured she’d earned the right to keep that masterpiece.

  8. So I finally read your Blog
    I loved the first half of it!
    I was so honest and from the heart 🙂
    But I think u sort of lot the essence towards the end.
    Overall it was really nice.
    And you OUGHT to start writing poetry again!

  9. Lol , i mean its sad that she “kept her words”. . I had a similar experience but then i showed the poem to my “muse” without telling her that it was intended for her. .
    And she showed it to your mom definitely to prove that she is elder than u. . Poor Diana. . Its because of her, we will never get to hear such poems again

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