A POEM FOR HARSH PARENTS

 

                A POEM FOR HARSH PARENTS

                Harsh parents impose unnecessary restrictions on their children and punish them if they do not abide by them. This kills their joy day in and  day out.

            The activities which invite the parents’ wrath are not vicious or sinful, They are natural and should be encouraged rather than mitigated. In fact, they spoil the affectionate relationship which is essential for the appreciable growth of the child till adulthood.

            Children should not be expected to become whole-time bookworms. They also need recreation through activities of their choice.

            According to UNICEF (United Nations Children’s Fund) strict parenting, characterized by high control, rigid rules, and low-warmth, often leads to negative outcomes including anxiety, depression, low self-esteem, and aggressive behaviour. It is also possible that children may become skilled at lying to avoid punishment, struggle with decision-making, and exhibit rebellion, while potentially facing long-term issues like strained relationships and poor mental health.           

                        Given below is a poem titled “The Toys”. It is written by the English poet and literary critic Coventry Patmore (1823-1896). He is best known for his book of poetry The Angel in the House, a narrative poem about the Victorian ideal of a happy marriage.

                            Here is full text of the poem.

                                                The Toys                  

My little Son, who look'd from thoughtful eyes

And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise,

Having my law the seventh time disobey'd,

I struck him, and dismiss'd

With hard words and unkiss'd,

----His Mother, who was patient, being dead.

Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep,

I visited his bed,

But found him slumbering deep,

With darken'd eyelids, and their lashes yet

From his late sobbing wet.

And I, with moan,

Kissing away his tears, left others of my own;

For, on a table drawn beside his head,

He had put, within his reach,

A box of counters and a red-vein'd stone,

A piece of glass abraded by the beach

And six or seven shells,

A bottle with bluebells

And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art,

To comfort his sad heart.

So when that night I pray'd

To God, I wept, and said:

Ah, when at last we lie with tranced breath,

Not vexing Thee in death,

And Thou rememberest of what toys

We made our joys,

How weakly understood

Thy great commanded good,

Then, fatherly not less

Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay,

Thou'lt leave Thy wrath, and say,

"I will be sorry for their childishness."

                                                                        *****

G.R.Kanwal

26 March 2026