Confessions of a Country Swain (Blank Verse)

                                                        (  I  )

             The wind feels cool just like the touch of my palm

              Ice-cold when winter comes; the tossing crowns

              Of golden corn remind my youthful days

              When I as a lad raced with calves and village boys:

              With sudden rush and cease a lilt of music

              Passes through undulating wavy grass;

              Like minstrels at wedding time who vie

              With loud playing sounds of trumpets and drums ;                    
              Our village dames excel in drawing designs
              With rice-powder and colors in front-yards

              Of our homes with rhythmic ease and accustomed skill.

              But me, too poor at drawing those curves and dots;

              As a boy I scribbled sparrows and crows

              With a coal-piece on whichever wall I wish

              And drew odd circles and squares on sandy bed.

              The fluffy floating clouds in various shapes      

              Tinged with crimson, rosy and golden colors

              Made a visual feast to my wondering eyes;

              Our elders after their farming work sat around

              To drink country-liquor and drag back to their homes

              With empty pockets, groping through gloomy lanes;

              For me the fields around with colorful blooms and leaves

              Showed the thrilling art of Nature’s work;

              Though I can’t capture those charms in paint

              I kept them safe within as a treasure of dreams.

                                            ( I I )

             “Why this fustian talk?” you may ask; forgive

              A village babbler’s loose petty sermon:

              My school teacher oft used his rod to mend

              My slogging brain: he spared no stick or duster;

              My parents beat me , but beyond letters

              I never learnt: each letter took a month’s labor

              I sweated like a bull goaded through rough furrows;

              After my tedious study time, my life

              Took a happy turn; I grazed the cows and tamed

              Them to yield milk that fell with hissing froth

              Into the pail; a delicious smell I sensed

              As I watched those mild creatures munching grass;

              My master praised poesy as the food divine

              That I treated as Greek and Latin indeed:

              In my broken dialect and half-fledged tunes

              I sang aloud amidst the open fields

              Unaware of my animal friends and pals;

              My friends called me a bard in a teasing way;

              I never cared: once when a rambler heard

              My song, he praised me and danced like a doll

              Clapping and whistling with excited zeal

              And gave me sweet berries with happy looks.

                                         ( I I I )

              Don’t think of me, a trumpeter; I never played

              Romeo like city youth but chose to dwell

              With my rustic maid under the thatched roof

              Though not so pretty as flirting city girls

              She gave me contented joy and worked a lot ;

              Not pestering me for costly things and wealth
              On festive days we had our joyous fill                             

              When all people sat around in moon-lit nights

              After their due reverence to village temple gods.

              With much delight I took the role of serving food

              Urging all to eat more and more in liberal measure.

              Not like these urban folk with metal forks and spoons

              But relish each morsel full with god-given hands.      

                                            

                                             ( I V )

               I ply the boat too tied beside the sedgy banks;

               With my  leathern scrip, line and rod 

               To deeper waters I row with keener eye

               Swinging my line with cautious twist to catch

               A bunch of silver carp,white trout or striped long eel

               A lush meal for me with country fowl and eggs ;

               A simple life I lead with my kin and mates

               Not wishing for airy castles too steep

               For my honest labor, humble means and worth

               I do thank God for what I am, My friends !

               As clear as a banana with its golden rind

               Open,I laid bare my feelings to you;

               I end my confession too long I presume

               Pardon me if much time I snatched from you.

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               24th May, 2018                          Somaseshu Gutala

     Note :    1. Country swain = a village youth

                   2. fluffy              = soft like feathers

                   3. fustian           =  artificial 

                   4. babbler          =  talkative

                   5. trumpeter      = one who praises himself

                   6. scrip              =  (Archaic) bag

                   7. half-fledged   = immature   
         
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