If bodies of their own heal
I
Two scores of ripe years ere, remember I,
At shower, shaving mirror, shaping hair,
Bending elbow when turns annoying nigh,
I wonder when, how my hurt hushed in there
Unknown to me, as seasons oft set in
Early or late, till one day forced are we
To tune into the change though not keen;
More than the dull pain, hurt irritates me.
The medic I consult, cool as was I,
But more sure, call it a tennis elbow,
Me in protest, not having played the game,
Laugh it off a little respectfully,
The doc unmoved as e'er, letting me know:
Oh, just the same, it is no more than name.
II
Prescribes he a pain pacifying drug,
Not kind to drugging messengers of pain,
Being a believer in roots, I shrug,
The pain, not being un-seasonal rain,
Persists gaining a slow intensity,
The devilish doc feels vindicated,
Looking kind, yet stern-eyed, he nods at me;
Oh, counsel my own leaves me defeated!
O'er-ruled, a rebel on knees, and elbowed,
Bowed to submission, loosening left sleeve,
I look as if explanation was owed,
He looks up a stern verdict to give:
There's no escape, man reaps whatso is sowed,
Whatso the doc decides you shall receive.
III
Nursing help called in, I'm led like a cow
To in-house slaughter house, or so I thought,
The wise me cursing the rebellious me now,
I follow in worse apprehensions caught,
O for ultra thermal waves— half an hour;
Feeling relieved thence: it could have been worse,
But rather than relieving pain, if e'er,
The mute machine taxes my time and purse.
The pain persisting still, it was my time
[...] Read more
poem by Aniruddha Pathak
Added by Poetry Lover
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