I was in the womb
my book clutched in my hands
smiling and playing in that cozy world.
I came out to meet a bright April sun.
My book still clutched tight in my tiny fist.
The pages all white and beautiful.
The magic book of life
in which, I can only write and never erase.
Father plucked the book from my hand
saying I am too young to begin.
He wrote for me as I lay
smiling and trusting.
Write beautiful things, father
for I know not how to write yet.
I shyly put down a line
after the first five pages,
looked at father and smiled.
Father, see! I wrote my first line.
No! No! No!
He said.
You are too young to begin.
Let me do it for you.
But father, I know how to write,
please let me.
He crossed out the line written by me
and put down his own.
Please keep my book beautiful, father.
For, I want to be beautiful.
After twelve pages, mother wrote in my book too.
Two sets of incongruous writings in the book now,
several of mine struck through.
Father, see how shoddy the book looks!
Please let me write in my book, father.
No! No! No!
he said.
You are still too young to write.
Let me do it for you.
And my book of life had father's and mother's lines.
As those lines got more frequent,
mine got more sporadic.
After twenty pages,
father said, I could write.
Whoopee!
I eagerly picked up my pen to start.
I want to write my book in a beautiful hand, father.
But, my pen wobbles over the deep furrows
made by your writings in the previous pages!
As I turn each page eagerly
hoping to find a page free of these deep grooves,
I see that every page I turn has your imprint.
I am not able to write in my book, father.
Written by and copyrighted to vsubha
my book clutched in my hands
smiling and playing in that cozy world.
I came out to meet a bright April sun.
My book still clutched tight in my tiny fist.
The pages all white and beautiful.
The magic book of life
in which, I can only write and never erase.
Father plucked the book from my hand
saying I am too young to begin.
He wrote for me as I lay
smiling and trusting.
Write beautiful things, father
for I know not how to write yet.
I shyly put down a line
after the first five pages,
looked at father and smiled.
Father, see! I wrote my first line.
No! No! No!
He said.
You are too young to begin.
Let me do it for you.
But father, I know how to write,
please let me.
He crossed out the line written by me
and put down his own.
Please keep my book beautiful, father.
For, I want to be beautiful.
After twelve pages, mother wrote in my book too.
Two sets of incongruous writings in the book now,
several of mine struck through.
Father, see how shoddy the book looks!
Please let me write in my book, father.
No! No! No!
he said.
You are still too young to write.
Let me do it for you.
And my book of life had father's and mother's lines.
As those lines got more frequent,
mine got more sporadic.
After twenty pages,
father said, I could write.
Whoopee!
I eagerly picked up my pen to start.
I want to write my book in a beautiful hand, father.
But, my pen wobbles over the deep furrows
made by your writings in the previous pages!
As I turn each page eagerly
hoping to find a page free of these deep grooves,
I see that every page I turn has your imprint.
I am not able to write in my book, father.
Written by and copyrighted to vsubha
3 comments:
Subha,
You are definately a well qualified Literature person but as a reader myself since childhood just wanted to humbly suggest a few sites that may have links to may more advanced writing ..
http://www.colorincolorado.org/article/31170/ AND http://www.sprowstonhigh.org/cms/resources/revision/How%20to%20write%20an%20A-star%20poetry%20response.pdf... May be these you could look at .. Best wishes, Jay
a very touching poem...
@Jay: Thank you for your comments and the links. Am a bit busy these days. Will go through the suggested links and let you know.
@Shrey: Thank you for appreciating my poem
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