An Ode To My Alma Mater

Morning dewdrops wet the shoes

of students running round the field,

running and shouting

chasing the rough, round ball while the sun

rose lazily from horizons.

I gaze at the smiling faces

of my juniors running about,

squealing as they crashed into one another,

laughing at a joke unheard to my distant ears.

Time flies when you enjoy it,

a line seemingly vague when begin,

but as graduation eases close,

becomes clear.

Form One was a breeze,

moulding friendship and footing,

finding your stand amidst peers,

finding wondrous spots in your new home,

easing your way across the year.

It's not easy to decide,

which meal is better, the 'roti jala' or char kuey tiao,

which subject is interesting, geography or 'kemahiran hidup',

which teacher is funnier, the Mrs Madam or Mister Sir;

but we've all selected what suits us, and

accepted all there is that we pend.

Form Two is a spring shower,

gradually finding groups you call friends,

gradually learning the ropes of the school,

gradually setting goals you work hard towards,

strolling your way across the year.

It's not easy to decide,

if doing duties of a prefect is stressful or not,

if doing homework assigned is tiring or not,

if school starts too early or not;

yet we've all walked through,

determinedly sitting where we have chosen.

Form Three is a summer night,

too into the school year,

too thoughtful of your future,

too harsh as a deciding factor as you

jog your way across the year.

It's not easy to decide,

when you need to study, you'd rather play,

when you need to exercise, you'd rather laze,

when you need to socialize, you'd rather take a step back,

but we've all came through it, and

scored the best we could.

Form Four is an autumn wind,

a crossroad to meet future,

a year some call a honeymoon

a time some choose to find a sweet sixteen,

running their way across the year.

It's not easy to decide,

if friendship or family should come first,

if sweethearts or studies should come second,

if workouts or delicacies should come third,

but we've all place our bets, and there's no withdrawing.

Form Five is winter, snow and hail;

as candidates sit for exams,

as candidates puzzled for future colleges,

as candidates cried upon graduation,

sprinting their way across the year.

It's not easy to decide,

which college is better, local or foreign,

which time is tougher, separations or farewell,

which phase is crazier, exams or playtime, yet

we all can't wait, as we fly through

to the times of aftermath, post-exams.

My years are seasonal,

spent in dilapidating walls

as coats of paint begin to peel.

Old and rustic,

but the way I love it,

telling us of the age-old stories

of sisterhood years before mine.

Millennial-old classrooms,

field of a hundred fifty-seven years,

trophies back to years before I came,

an old place reimbursed with energy

and zest as freshmen skipped to school

year after year.

I remember my orientation days,

where talks went all days I forgot the contents, yet

one phrase stayed through,

that

"The school might be old, the place might be rusty,

but what makes the school famed,

never for the architecture,

but for the students and teachers within."

Averted gaze to the fluffy clouds,

wondering what the future holds

for all the years of study just for that one day

deciding where and how I proceed

to the further years filled with mist and fog.

I will miss dearly the school,

of its teachers whose wit outrun ours,

of its students whose laugh outsound ours,

of its friends whose tears and laughter mirrored mine,

of its memories whose beauty bound my future silent nights.

One day in future I'm sure

that I'll step into the school again,

with a role, I'm yet to know

but for sure, definitely

my alma mater won't be left alone.

Dear alma mater,

stay strong,

for in centuries to come,

there you still are;

the vessel that countless souls

look back to

as a home of solace and colours;

as a haven of trials and errors;

as a castle carving the way;

for hearts to come, looking for their path.

Dear alma mater,

do know,

I may be frail due to age,

and diseases might limit my acts;

I may be worn by the world,

and realities might curb my voice;

but there will be a sane mind,

playing the memories of mine,

like a broken recorder,

left to play by an obstinate owner.

-x-

Note: This poem was written right after graduation in 2017, but it was recently published in the 160th anniversary magazine of SMK Infant Jesus Convent Melaka.