The theme of this week’s writing challenge was iconic, and it set me thinking. Which object was that one icon that embodied me and all what I stand for, my journey in life up till now, and something that will probably play just as important a part in my future. The answer is my bureau. My father had it made for me the very year I joined nursery school – April 1999 – and I have been studying on it ever since. It is just four years younger than me, and in many ways we have grown up together. It is kinda messy I admit, but still very dear to my heart, which is why I wrote this poem for it:
My desk stands old and bruised, Ages have passed – or so it seems, Since our first encounter. Indeed, I am Much changed; No more the tiny lass, Who needed two cushions on her chair To reach the desk, where I now sit proudly. Only the glittering princess sticker on the side reminisces Of those times, when I lisped through the alphabets – here, on my desk, Where I now recite Blake and Keats, and memorize Shakespeare. Much has it endured the brunt of time – fifteen long years; Much has it been moistened by many, many tears and, Dried by the warmth of smiles and care. Was it not only yesterday, that I tore my hair out over number tables, And fractions that gave me nightmares – now I muse over polynomials!
The stains and marks tell their own story – I beg you to listen, They are all a-clamouring to tell you their story, my story: The paint splatters are testimony to many an artwork, The canvas of my childhood has had held many masterpieces, the pride of a child’s heart! That there, the cream splotch, my mother over-worked her hands on that, To remove the squiggles of a permanent marker.
The locker has in its time stored many secrets, and treasures, Birthday gifts, love letters, old valentines and party-invites. Only the adhesive marks remain from my movie posters, Blackened with time; From Enid Blyton to JK Rowling, From Cinderella to Eragon, from Famous Five to Sherlock Holmes, My learned desk has read it all. It has written too, Diaries and letters, essays and lab journals. The line of books replaced the parade of Barbies, The pierre-cardin pens, my worn out crayons. Dull volumes succeeded the picture books, the book of rhymes by the book of poems.
My desk has been my dearest companion, Together we would sit and daydream, me and my darling confider. Together we have traveled down the vista of years, Faced the storms and zephyrs alike; hiked over mountains and moors. This wooden desk is my memoir, the legacy of my childhood, The comrade of my youth and the foundation of my future.
This is my first attempt at writing a poem, but the subject I think is fitting. This is an ode to me desk.