SMILES

Every time a smiling face I see,
I wonder what that smile is telling me.

For some smile to deride,
while others smile to hide,
and many a smile looks like a frown,
reluctantly turned upside-down.

Some seem to smile,
every once in a while,
for apparently no reason at all;
others draw back their curtains,
but remain hidden behind a wall.

Some use it beautifully, to say
what words can’t.
Others use it  in a way,
that gets them what they want.

But still, a smile is a pleasant thing,
and best of all, it’s free;
so the next time you come along,
do bring one for me. 🙂

Artwork © ~Bleach—Lover, deviantart.com

THE POET

“Goodness gracious me!
Are you writing poetry?”

“Yes ma’am, I am. I enjoy it, I really do,
Every now and then, writing a line or two.”

“Another poet! Oh dear! The world will be ruined, I fear.
But of all places, why are you writing here?”

“I’m just awaiting my turn, I have the flu;
So tell me, what’s ailing you?”

“My mind’s in a spin and I have an aching head,
And it’s all because of some poems I read.
You poets are wicked, you really are,
Your poetry seems so simple from afar,
But if one actually tries to interpret what you’ve said,
The only reward is an aching head!”

“I’m so sorry to hear that; if you’d like, I can explain
The art of reading poetry without feeling any pain.
See, if you understand the entire poem, then that’s very good;
You’ve actually done better than the poet thought you would.

But if you understand only parts, or nothing at all,
Don’t fret or cry, or bang your head against the wall.
If it makes no sense to you, it’s probably written for another,
So to critically inspect, dissect or bisect it, don’t bother,
Just treat it like mail which you’ve opened by accident;
For a poem will always make sense to those for whom it is meant.”

The lady sighed, and rubbed her head,
“I’ll think about what you’ve told me,” she said,
“But then, I wonder where THAT POET must be,
Who writes poems that are meant for me!”

MORKANT, THE MAGNIFICENT

A little ant was climbing a wall
That was built behind a waterfall;
Said a friendly fly, buzzing nearby,
“Abandon your journey or you will die!

For the waters are deep
And the wall is steep,
And over its rocky surface
The most terrible creatures creep.

Stronger and faster than you is man,
With his superior intellect, even he can
At best, climb it in a day;
So you will never, I say.”

But the ant was determined, you see,
And so, kept his mind completely free;
Of those words of anxiety, fear and dread,
Which touched him like hair on a bald man’s head!

A strong breeze, and the fly was gone;
And soon went many a night and dawn.
The ant soldiered on, an honest trier,
Slowly climbing higher and higher.

Neither rocks nor rain could halt his gain,
His steady ascent not hindered by pain.

At first, he hid in crevices from beast and bird,
And he moved too quietly to ever be heard;
But as he went on, no hostile creature came his way,
A miracle which repeated itself night and day.

And the day came, when, at last, the wall was scaled,
And by one and all the ant was hailed;
For Morkant, The Magnificent, had been reached,
A kingdom of ants by beauty besieged.

All the little ant could do was stand and stare,
For here was a sight with which none could compare;

There were anthills, so beautiful, carved like palaces in the sand,
Made by talented ant-architects from many a distant land.
There were colossal statues of the ant-kings of old,
Proud sentinels of the past, embellished with silver and gold;
More splendid than the stars by night they seemed,
With vivacious warmth in sunlight they gleamed.

Daisies and daffodils danced in the sweet-smelling air,
As impish winds pranced through gardens fair;
They tickled him, till he could do naught but smile,
Lessening his weariness with every passing mile.

And there was food and ant-wine and song,
Though songs in antish are far too long!
Of what stories they speak I cannot tell,
For I’m afraid I don’t speak antish very well.

But one day, I’m sure, the little ant’s tale will be sung,
By older and younger antlings of every rung;
And maybe, someday, even by men, knowledgeable and erudite;
For there is much to be learnt even from those of seemingly little might.

-Written in 2005

TO SIR, WITH LOVE

Sir, have you noticed that half the class is asleep?
And that the rest are physically present, but mentally miles away?
Very soon, someone will surely start to weep,
for we don’t understand a word of what you say!

You tell us that some angles are obtuse, while others are acute,
And the rest are simply right;
Well, your words confuse, and our tongues go mute,
While our hearts hop in fright!

And though we sincerely try, every equation to satisfy,
By finding the values of the elusive ‘Mr. X’ and ‘Mr. Y’,
Nothing adds up, and we can’t help but sigh ,
As only our sadness and frustrations multiply.

Now, did I just hear you say we have a test tomorrow?
It might interest you to know, you’ve just compounded our sorrow.
It’s so very kind of you, Sir, to include every chapter and every page,
And it’s even nicer to see you smirk and say so at this late stage.

We’re not Euler or Aryabhata’s incarnations, don’t you know?
I guess you will, for that’s exactly what the results will show.
Now, don’t get us wrong, we’re not stupid or lazy;
It’s just that all these formulas can drive anyone crazy!

There are so many figures to study but not one of them is pretty,
And every attempt to befriend them seems to end in enmity!
There is so much material to go through but none of it is witty,
And our patience, though aplenty, does not tend to infinity.

And now, as you speak of circles and pi, it reminds me,
Of a round table with cookies, cakes and tea!
And then, I slowly drift away, dreaming of magical portals that lead somehow,
from the classroom to the canteen, through which I could disappear right now!

So Sir, please don’t worry,
if tomorrow, you see me gazing vacantly into space,
And if I fall asleep, I assure you,
it will be with a smile on my face.

-Written in 2009