Gods of the Last Bench

I’d like to take a brake from all these CAT/XAT talks for a while and talk about something else for a change. Something we all can relate to – our school days.

The fun we had with friends, the fights, infatuations, our boisterous activities and the scolding that (sometimes) followed, the academics, examinations and our parents’ obsession with marks, the teachers, and most importantly our classrooms – ’cause here’s where we spent most of our time in school.

Obviously I did too.

And in that classroom I had my own imaginary world – the last benches – away from the boring lectures… just my closest friends and I – in our own little world, where we could talk or scribble or daydream or just do whatever the hell we wanted, as long as we avoided being caught by the teacher. This amateur poem of mine depicts a typical boring classroom scene where I’d spend most of my time scribbling away. If you too were a backbencher like me, you may find some part of you in it.

(Grammar Nazis: You’ve been warned.)

——————————————————————————–Sitting on the rear corner bench,

Amid my own daydream,

Random sketches on my notebook,

Never quite made up their sheen.

.

Some were names

And some were numbers,

Shallow did they really seem?

But they, alas, were my only option

To get this load off the beam…

.

I tried, I tried, and I tried to swallow

But still, but still I could not see.

And even though I’d love to follow,

These scribbling make a merry me.

.

.

And so did the same, my fellow bench men

For their residence could not be seen.

But bigger a reason was withheld,

With the speaker, that a scream.

.

She spat and sang,

Oh good dictator,

As if one was so so keen.

And we, embraced in a deluge of thoughts

Never really knew what she did mean…

.

I tried, I tried, and I tried to swallow

But still, but still I could not see.

And even though I’d love to follow,

These scribbling make a merry me.

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