Writing Poetry

The only other time

Ever I wrote poetry

Was when I was fifteen

 

And pretty awful poetry it was

Generally whiny and confused

Written in a fit of anger

Against the world (as personified by my mother or teacher)

Or from the depths of despondency

(After a ‘I’ll never talk to you’ fight with a best friend)

 

Never did it rhyme

Have a spark of originality

Or rhythm

Or any redeeming grace

 

Now that I am fifty five (plus!)

I find myself writing poetry again

As awful as before

As whiny and confused

As graceless—if slightly better spelt!

 

Second childhood I have heard of,

But why did no one warn me

That adolescence and the mid-life crisis

Have so much in common?

-Meena