Poetry by the Seasoned Writer

An average day of doodling in class provides enough fuel to whip up something insanely spectacular. Here is the perfect example. I had conjured this up in school less than a year ago. And no, it was not the Biology period.

The Amoeba in Your Calf

A cry of pity from Priyanka Mehta, the spokesperson of amoebae

In this realm of steady darkness

Lies an oversized amoeba,

Yelling out in sorry distress

From the bleak walls of your tibia.

'I'm more than turgid, I'll rupture --

Plasma membrane has let me down...

Contractile vacuole -- help here;

I may not be here come sundown.'

The deprived amoeba lies thus

In your poor unassuming calf --

Getting drowned in your blood and pus,

Its thrill of life reduced by half.

This was around the time I was getting conscious of my syllables. I realised then that all my earlier poetry had no rhythm and was useless at best.

After this realisation, of course, I started producing better poems, like The Ballad of Semmerwater: The Parody and The Brief Courtship of Two Islands (titles still subject to change), both much longer and more rhythmic than The Amoeba in Your Calf.

I will post them here, of course, but all in due time...