The School of Poetry

vikas chandra

A well-read die-hard patron of that fabled bard
Who swore by his rare eloquent flair
Showed up, one balmy morning, at his boulevard
Along was his lad, little darling Sinclair

“Sir! So much to your genius, beholden this age
Splendidly far-fetched, the grandeur of your finesse
Would you be so kind, to embrace my boy under your tutelage?
For only you, poetry’s school sublime, wisdom’s prime recess”

The bard jibed, “Dear! You’ve known my gems, not doggerels, wasted epics, I live with
Not a born bard, took duds and scorns in stride, as milestones of a stirring pilgrimage
Picked up poesy in school of life, unquelled instincts refined, my only means, to give with
An unschooled rhymester, stumbled over visions, paid my way, a grand homage

Not bread, though wine, takes its own prized time to make and mellow
With pods of thoughts, in the winery of soul, brewed with…

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