In rooms crowded with pigtails
and half pants
They taught us maps
and shapes and swirls.
They’ve changed now into
very different rants
As Atwood’s ‘I’ laments all the
maps are coloured in
And Edward said it’s an
orientalist thing.
They are not swirls anymore but
Yeat’s Gyres.
we keep winding upon new meanings each day.
And in our mad search we forget
to hear what Beckett had to say.
This is not a poem
Just as I am not learning anymore.
I am unlearning the things they have chalked in
about good and bad and gods in books and sin.
I want to know why are ballets full of bullet holes?
And in brothels we find most purging their souls?
Why you and I can have our fifteen seconds of fame
But we would still not know the neighbour’s name.
They managed to strew most half truths on the classroom floor with chalk dust
But our brains still rust
because they skipped that lesson- discernibly the most important one-
the one where they should have taught us not to learn anymore.


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