I had given her all the verse I had written.
She sat like a judge on my productions.
“Some are good, but not poem-poems,
She said, sitting tense in my office-chamber,
Gesturing inverted commas
With both her hands.
My vanity was surely hurt:
What was worse, I knew that already.
“Burn them”, I said.
Didn’t write a poem after that.
Why did her view affect me so much?
Because she had written poetry,
Four pages of her poems
In a marathi magazine I have seen.
Or, is it because I liked her?
She knew a lot about life and love.
She was half my age,
Challenged my academic distinctions
Matching with her own; and,
No stranger to modern literature:
Not as she charged 'square' like me,
She could wander around with ease.
All that was long ago: now I feel
Her comments need not stop
Flow of words or ideas springing,
From being written down.
Nine years are a long period.
Life is passing by…
Let me start writing what I feel,
As I complete sixty-two years today.
20.12.2007
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I really enjoyed reading your poem...it reflexs the struggle of a person to make a decision based on someones opinion. Its really funny how much we give up...just because of 1 opinion. Love this: 'Gesturing inverted commas With both her hands.'