10 June 2020
Silence stretches from my study to the bed
I live in this jar these days
I am hiding from a virus.
I count days gone by
Loving, birthing, breaking, leaving
Coming together again.
It used to matter so much
pearl and diamond days; sapphire nights
Rubies like blood transforming into wine.
I felt consecrated.
And then the service ended abruptly.
Children grew up; greys descended.
Now this!
Is it time to leave already?
I meant to live some more.
I meant to have the time
But not all of it.
Some silence - but not of this deathly kind.
So, I am hiding, hoping
waiting desperately.
But for what exactly?
Actually it doesn't matter anymore.
From the study to the bed
is a vacuum.
I am preserving
in juices of memory
Now tart and vinegary.
I will likely endure
like a relish in the larder.
Too pungent, brought out occasionally.
6 comments:
Lovely! Looking forward to more!
Noor
Always..... like always , wanted to write my afterthoughts of your thought provoking poem ma'am, it's raining after a long time, what could have been the best time to write about it. So here I go.
I loved your living along with this not so silent "Silence".
Silence maybe outside but never inside, inside there's enough calm but pickled experiences stir the calm and create the noise within. Breaking the walls of silence.
Hypnotising the conscious mind to create a castle of playing cards, which if not be guided soon by the spine to the hands to articulate into words, the castle would fly away with the silghtest wind of digression.
Encouraging or literally making you write automatically.
These pungent pickled experiences keep coming out occasionally filling the heart with the nostalgic smell of past.
Your experiences are well salted, dried and pickled with a lot of caution in the jar of memories.
Whenever this jar will open like the silent chaos, this weird but luring smell would spread across and lure the foodies of experiences to taste the little tangy pickle out of the jar.
Thanks lady lawyer, Noor.
I loved your living along with this not so silent "Silence".
Silence maybe outside but never inside, inside there's enough calm but pickled experiences stir the calm and create the noise within. Breaking the walls of silence.
Hypnotising the conscious mind to create a castle of playing cards, which if not be guided soon by the spine to the hands to articulate into words, the castle would fly away with the slightest wind of digression.
Encouraging or literally making you write automatically.
These pungent pickled experiences keep coming out occasionally filling the heart with the nostalgic smell of past.
Your experiences are well salted, dried and pickled with a lot of caution in the jar of memories.
Whenever this jar will open like the silent chaos, this weird but luring smell would spread across and lure the foodies of experiences to taste the little tangy pickle out of the jar.
Hi Neeru and Neena,
Will cherish your comment. Thank you so much
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