(071) Enigma Poem by premji premji

(071) Enigma

Rating: 2.7

Every child is a wonder
Every parent is a hunter
Bundle their ideas with harshness
Plunder their dreams without kindness
May be there are exceptions
But they are the minority
Happy with their children’s creativity

The most unfortunate thing on Earth is
To be born as the child of two Teachers
Or the child of a self-made man…
Living with them is a real mess
Days without any kindness
Imagine my plight, being
The son of two self made Teachers!

Some Teachers are wonderful creatures
With special comparators
Some kind of meters they use to
Compare me with others,
She got three A+
You got all bloody A grade…

One day, I was caught for
Penning down some poems
Poetry is of no use, they told,
Study hard to qualify Entrance
Then you will be either
A doctor or engineer
To live, you need a profession
Not poetic procession

Till five, I was in the care of Grand parents
My father was working two districts away
Mother used to leave before I rose up
As her school was twenty miles away
Grandma used tell good stories
To free me from scorching distress
I listened with all eagerness
She only taught me the meaning of love
She used to take me to the paddy fields
She used to bathe me in small streams
Where small fishes hit my little wounds
She led me to natural wonders
That opened my inner-eyes later
Plenty of time I had, to squander with friends
That annoyed my mother hard,
I may pick up bad words,
What a funny excuse!

When I just turned three
Father made my friends flee
Started teaching how to count
That I don’t want to recount
I started counting …one…five… three
For my mind was there under that mango tree
Which carried ripe mangoes for free
‘Thudd’…He slapped on my thigh
I started crying at volume high
His disciples say, he is a fantastic teacher
I still feel he is the poorest
Patience is the mother of the art of teaching
It’s not a matter of preaching
It’s something that matters in practice

Every child is a wonder
For child is the father of man…
I too have two little sons…

Papa…Close your laptop,
Younger one shouts,
Tell me a story
Connecting a Crow, cow and…


And a crocodile…

Little ones are real trouble
Who put you in
Life’s Greatest riddles…


Sandra Fowler 17 May 2009

Very poignant. Poetry will manifest itself whatever the conditions. May your muse never leave you. Kind regards, Sandra

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C T Heart 21 July 2008

Ones custom and tradition sometimes impede to the growth of society...written with a care! ! ! ! Heart

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Rema Prasanna 20 July 2008

It is an eye openor parents who force their dreams on children and not allow them to grow up ontheir own.. Indian parents... caution.. well written 10 Rema

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premji premji

premji premji

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