First of all, I must apologise to a few people. I did actually quite enjoy my train ride, so please don’t think I’m having a go. Anything mildly offensive to the city loyalists should not be deemed derogatory, but rather ‘poetic licence’.
I must also apologise to the numerous English teachers who attempted to instil poetic principles into my educational experience. All I remembered was that rhyme is important and that the syllables should be somewhat consistent (I’m sure there is a more correct use of terminology for this). I also remember the word ‘pentameter’ though I am unsure if this is related or what it actually means.
Last of all, I should apologise to you, the reader. When I promised to deliver an ‘ode’ I didn’t consider
(a) what an ode is (I still don’t know – I doubt if this is an ode); and
(b) how bad I am at following poetic formats
Considering the lengthy apologies I have needed to write, its probably a good idea to avoid the ramblings below in their entirety. Should you choose to continue, you do so at your own peril and no subsequent action on your behalf can be considered to be the fault of the author.
Ode to a Mumbai Train
O Mumbai train, O Mumbai train,
how our trip disturbs me.
The crowd around, that does surround,
is very tight and sticky.
Though to be fair, my wallets there,
I shouldn’t be so picky.
And I navigate, (I can’t be late),
despite it being tricky.
seemingly without cause.
Yet when they stop, it does feel like,
they’re worthy of applause.
I must ponder, very briefly,
if they follow any laws.
As many men, at reckless stance,
Are hanging out all doors.
A window gaze, lets my eye see,
folk walking on the tracks.
I try to think, of anything,
that this train journey lacks.
Perhaps it might, be more bizarre,
with a busker playing Sax?
Or could it be, that I might see,
a madman wielding an axe?
But no I won’t, I’ve now reached my-
And as I think, it was not a-
Though carriages, cry out for a-
source of purification
I’ve decided, there are worse forms-
of city transportation
be described as too long
So to say that, it wastes ones time,
would be exactly wrong
There is I guess, the small fact that,
you must deal with the pong
And the teenage, entrepreneurs,
who sell books among the throng
You saved me though, from city streets,
where all cars only beep
And got me to, downtown Bombay,
very much ‘on the cheap’
I will say that, its not a place,
where I’d feel safe to sleep
The memory though, without a doubt,
I’ll surely want to keep