By Hushmeet Singh
(The layman whispers—
As the bard sings his melodies,
The bard makes up words
That violate sciences.
John Tyndall listens—hiding.)
The trees were rude to the winds,
So the winds jerk the trees
To twirl their twigs,
And force a warm hello,
Causing a dandruff of leaves,
As if a comb was passed
Through a terrain of timid pollen.
The human just stood there,
Observing, staying neutral,
Watching prey devour its predator.
When the sun is up, it becomes a mural—
As the trees bend the shade,
Diffusing the winds into vivid shadows.
But as soon as winds get off-schedule,
They lose weight
And go berserk, losing elation.
The breath they whisper becomes colossal.
The trees try to escape,
They try and try,
Like a ravaging ape,
Yet their roots are grounded to air.
(The bard smirks,
Pointing his eyes towards
A man of sciences,
Who was hiding behind shadows,
Now clear in the lighting.)
The winds craft a casket of grime,
Which fits Tyndall in ecstatic woe—
His shuffled deck of science explanation
Is now philosophically
An impossible combination.
This lad can imagine air as a science—
Why shouldn't we hear from this man and his wise?
(Tyndall tries to tinker a response,
As light escapes his torso-eyes.
He knew dust couldn't be
A metaphor for science.)
"Light scatters as the leaves tune
Their DJ,
Like a mister running his hands through
Cold-iced beer,
Rejoicing from the sound
Of ice giggling!
Maybe the mister will go weak after,
Like a bear running too far—
It loses its home.
Sooner or later.
Like that, air will adapt."
The bard lets out a chuckle,
Preparing a stanza
Against Tyndall’s response.
…
(Whispers collide into softness)
"SNAP BACK!"
"Don't make me call home again!" — an amused teacher of mine.
(Proceeds to start thinking again,
Out of revolt—
Camouflaging the words by the teacher
With arguments to himself,
Of why science isn't bad—
It's incomplete.
It knows life, yet can't understand it.
Just like how light surrounds dust
To create splashes of air art.)
My art—my habit—
Is a cultural shock.
It has no remedials—no detentions.
I wish I could have completed that
Amazing poem I had in mind
Earlier—I hate that teacher.
Now it's lost somewhere in the endless abyss
Of 100 other poems I never
Got to write.
I wish creating was celebrated in
Arts—not only in sciences.
Call home again!—I won’t stop!