This is the story of my school times
When I got hooked not on drugs, but on rhymes.
My thoughts in the form of poetry unfurled
Around me, metaphors, and similes uncurled.
My head buzzed, busy like the busiest bee
Scribbling love notes under the school tamarind tree.
When naively , my heart , on paper I poured
With poetic superiority my dream boy roared.
When my sublime feelings ran pell mell
Alas , the brute called it a pathetic doggerel.
Fuming and frothing, he reprimanded me
Mocking me, as I sat hunched under the tamarind tree.
“Of juvenile thoughts this is a fusion
Nothing but delusion, crass confusion.”
Smugly opined the rhymester seventeen year old
I shuddered , breaking out in sweat cold .
With his verdict , I wanted to disagree
But kept mum, under the shade of the tamarind tree.
In a voice laced with sullen savagery
He critiqued the heartfelt imagery
To feel so jittery and weak kneed
Was a sentiment hackneyed
He opined with malicious glee
Would my dream ‘dry like a raisin’ under the tamarind tree?
He rolled his vain eyes upwards
And minced absolutely no words
“Someone killed the rhythm in your poetry
Who will unravel this unique murder mystery?”.
He remarked , making mincemeat of the poetic plea
Of the sixteen year old under the tamarind tree.
My feelings ah, so genuine
To him smacked of saccharine
“The metaphor could be better”,
He said returning the letter
No bending down on one knee
Before the girl who sat under the tamarind tree.
He had nothing but contempt for my love note
“You are no good”, he said, I shamefacedly quote .
A nincompoop that I was, pathetically meek
I was sure his remark was tongue in cheek.
He felt strangulated , though my verse was free.
My wounds I licked under the tamarind tree.
When thus, in a voice terse, he cursed my verse
In wrath my lips I did purse
Throwing away the mushy poetic stuff
Wiping a silent tear with my shirt cuff.
He was bloated with poetic pride, you see
With lachrymose wrath, I burst under the tamarind tree.
My feelings had been so ruthlessly derided
Never again, to love a poet , I decided
Never again would a rhymester stir
Any simile or metaphor
In any teenager writing love notes under the tamarind tree.