A Reed and Slate: A Scholar’s Ode

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Upon a reed of ink, mine letters lay,

Each mark a step upon the scholar’s way.

From humble scrawl to realms of wisdom vast,

Through letters, light and legacy are cast.


Oft did I crouch upon the earthen floor,

Where thoughts did bloom, and dreams began to soar.

No golden quill, nor scroll of silk had I,

But slate half-broke and hope that touched the sky.


The tunic bore the burden of my script,

Where cloth met ink, and learning's bond was gripped.

The reed, though frail, did speak with gentle might—

Its whispered strokes brought knowledge into light.


Thy countenance, O Master, soft and still,

Did grant my trembling hand its newfound will.

Thou smiled, and in that gaze I saw arise

A world unwrit beneath the scholar’s skies.


Not chalk of finest press, nor page of gold

Could write what on that broken slate took hold.

For oft, in bounds of lack, the soul doth grow,

And ink, though scarce, makes rich the mind below.


What joy did dance when first mine “A” was wrought—

A letter born from humble, earnest thought.

Each stroke, a spark; each sound, a solemn creed—

Thus bloomed the world upon a slender reed.


Thy voice, a psalm, did guide my fingers’ bend,

Thy hand, the map where letters did descend.

In thee, dear Guru, was the morning’s flame,

That lit the path from ignorance to name.


Though now the screens do glow with argent light,

And pens run sharp with store-bought ink and might,

Yet ne’er shall fade that waxen pencil’s gleam—

A stub that bore the weight of boyhood’s dream.


O slate, O chalk! O damp and sacred rag!

Thy ghostly prints on fingers yet do lag.

For ev’ry mark I made and wiped away,

Did teach me more than tutors oft can say.


No rose did I bestow, nor letter penned,

Yet shared a pencil stub with mine own friend.

Such was our love—no spoken words to spare,

But gestures writ in silence, sweet and rare.


And lo! when absent grew thy guiding flame,

And springtide waned, and none could speak thy name,

We children, wiser far than we had known,

Did seek in letters truths to call our own.


The courtyard bloomed where voices dared to rise,

Our lessons built beneath unending skies.

And thou, whose gaze hath shaped my waking hours,

Did plant in me the seeds of lifelong flowers.


What madness then, without thy guiding grace!

What storms would shake my soul from place to place?

But thou, with look and word, did’st light the way,

And led me forth into the bloom of day.


Now on the seas of knowledge vast I sail,

Where thought is wind, and dreams a sturdy gale.

And every word, a wave that bears me high—

Each letter, star to guide me ‘neath the sky.


Thus let us raise our pens in reverent flight,

For in each syllable lies truth and light.

And though the times may shift and tools may change,

The alphabet’s fair garden shall not estrange.


So here I stand, both student and a sage,

A soul set free upon the learning’s stage.

With thee, my Master, still within mine heart—

The lesson lives, though time and form depart.

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