"This is NOT ..." Quote of Bri Edwards

Sunday, January 17, 2021

This is NOT MY POEM, but i want to share it. It was when I was just in class three Hovering around the tenth year of age Something bothered me in the hours wee A sweetness, an aroma, sweat Or was it the morning dew on grass That kept me awake Rolling on my smelly bed With a sweetness that blazed my glands I don't know, I can't tell But there was she My classmate With jasmine teeth A dance perched on her feet Bothering my budding masculinity I knew I wanted her I couldn't make out what for In a frenzy that engulfed me Like a forest fire then I wrote On the inside of a discarded cigarette pack Slit open like a bleeding heart What I felt, the first love letter In words that moved like ants All over me and my heart I handed it to her brother Two years younger In secret, behind the school toilet yonder Hoping it would reach and vanquish her But, there was the maths teacher Fondling his scorpion tail moustache Watching the goings-on Who intercepted the missive From the hands of the shivering brother I thought I was in for hell Punishment, beatings, no one can tell But nothing happened to my surprise Till at last I noticed The school headmistress at my fence In a rare bosom chat with my mom, her friend I was playing behind my house Rolling stones in the setting sun Like a forlorn Ulysses adorned in sweat Yet I knew I was their subject Days passed and Diwali came The Indian festival of lights It was time for the early morning bath Under the glistening stars My mom poured warm water over me from a tub And I misbehaved in a gleeful jump She cautioned and slapped me on my thigh With a fire unknown in her eyes "Idiot, have you begun Writing love letters at this age? " That was the first and last time She ever beat me A lovely mother was she And, often I wonder what happened To that passionate missive of mine Perhaps, it was blown over by the winds Over fences and thorns and profusely bled And withered in the sun and rain Decayed down the channels of time And I met her of late one of these days At a temple festival when I braved To tell her about my missive missed That perhaps could have changed our fate She laughed out in a guffaw An aging grandma of three And I could see at sixty-eight Her jasmines were still intact What more could a lover want When he has only a toothless smile In exchange, Oh, why do we age? Madathil Rajendran Nair Topic(s) of this poem: love and pain

Bri Edwards
Varsha M 17 January 2021

Sir this story actually refreshed the old school days...and now we laugh on those silly things we did as a child. Good one.

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