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Poetry. Poetry. Poetry

My father had a subscription
To a small Gujrati journal of poetry
That came to us once a month
Titled, not very imaginatively, Kavita.
I used to look upon that slim book
As if it was magical.
I didn’t understand many words
But they were fluid when you read aloud
And the type was set as if it was a painting.

My father taught me my first poem
To recite for a competition,
The Rainbow by William Wordsworth.
Ever since then my heart always leaps up
When I see a rainbow in the sky.
That’s the only way I know rainbows,
The way Wordsworth meant them to be.

When I was five I got so excited
About poetry that I boasted, I wrote one.
I stood in the centre of the adoring circle
Of my family to recite my first ever poem
In the sing-song way we were taught as kids.
“Poetry, poetry, poetry, poetry, poetry, poetry
Poetry, poetry, poetry, poetry, poetry, poetry”
I was hooked.

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