Art of Love, Not From Printed Page
I
He left to learn more: art of love to make,
And sun down, wished to rest in a village,
To take off at the dawn soon as to wake,
A graceful woman gave him a cottage.
‘Forget me not on your way back, she said,
A few years and he completed the course—
What flutter of eyes meant, every love aid,
What’s come-hither look, gathered from all shores.
On his way back she made a room for him,
Hot water for feet, scents under pillow,
Heady garlands and what not did follow,
But what she saw made her nearly to scream.
It gave the young man some heady hot stuff,
Shaking him as if by nape of his scruff!
II
He felt he was charismatic, handsome,
That, this lady has sure fallen for him,
He felt a strange frisson from nowhere come,
Things unfolded around him a la dream.
And one day when the time seemed right, no qualm,
He caught her by the wrist, closer to pull,
But, lo and behold, she screamed, raised her arm,
‘Ye must go back to what so was your school!
Never once take a woman for granted,
For sure, a vital lesson was learnt well:
There was much more to learn, he reflected,
Yea, theory with practicals must gel!
Kama sutra, an Indian heritage,
Can seldom be learnt from a printed page.
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Sonnets (Tongue-in-cheek) | 09.02.2023 | love, women
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