Saturday, April 8, 2017

The so-called Nation Builders are often dismissed as insignificant cogs in the social machinery. Sadly, people in the profession of teaching are so cowed down by Power Play, that they bring down their self-respect and personal dignity to the bottom of the well. A place, from where all gossip, whimpers of complain and helpless wringing of hands are neither seen nor heard. My take on the perceived worth of an Teacher in a "touted" Democracy.

Who is She? , asked the Leader.

You ask them, "who is she",
Well, I'm also trying to know,
She seems to be a slave,
as things appear to be;
She used to be an angel,
My Lord Your Majesty,
till she entered the Elysium,
of glorified Anarchy;
With tired wings of Truth,
she managed to postpone,
the comatose state of Righteous,
the grand death of Democracy.
You ask "who is she? "
She's a superhero fiend, a martyr, a nobody; She tows the voice of reason-        
She's a "Teacher!” Oh hell, what adversity!  
You only mock her presence,
You do not wish to see,
She's driven by rare virtues,
Yes, she's living testimony!
Your words continue to singe,
Your manner is in want,
Your blindness takes you nowhere,
You only hear the chant,
Of a glorified ego,
ballooned by sylph-like goons,
You cannot think what's right
in plush, narcotic lagoons.
You ask " Who is she", -
She's the dying torch of Change,
chained to the stone of Excellence,
in the cave of Anonymity.
You question "who is she?"
She's an impassioned teacher,
tryin' to Walk-the-Talk,
a Wonder in the Dark...
She's what YOU used to be.


Tuesday, April 4, 2017

The Unloved Poem

Have you ever heard a lover making up to his sweetheart who is feeling neglected? Better still, have you heard a Poet speak to his Poem that's feeling the same? Who or what can tell apart , the feelings of an impassioned lover from those of a cognisant writer? Read on and see if you can tell the difference.

The way you look at me,
as blank as verse could be,
your eyes are far from truth,
your makeup lies to me!
You brought out all your zing,
in the form of laboured verse
(I couldn't feel a thing:
your touch was cold and terse)
You couldn't hide away
-no matter how you tried -
the starkness of the gray
that hid in black and white.
I didn't think I'd   live,
to bear this loss of touch;
I knew I didn't give,
my love 'n' care as much!
I should've writ you less,
I should've heard you more,
I should've held you close
when you'd walked in through the door;
I shouldn't have judged you so
for no reason and no rhyme,
I could've let you in
my heart from time to time...
It's not your fault, my love,
that meaning plays truant;
when muse and writer fight,
the poem's most defunct!
I now vow to infuse,
some colour in those cheeks -
with scintillating strokes
on all your curves and peaks;
I know I have to work;
on feeling you inside me,
on making love to thoughts,
you have when you're beside me...
Now ne'er again my love,
will y' look like hoary rime
I'll bathe you in such ether,
you'll be my poem sublime!