Note for the readers: The inspiration for this poem came from this photograph of an old house in Kolkata, India, captured by my friend Sudipendra Pal. He is an avid lover of nature and photography, his photographs have been published in Indian news dailies, including ‘The Telegraph’. He also blogs about his photos and life at : http://myphotostories100.wordpress.com/
First the house was full, then an empty mass
The juiciness of its flesh nibbled and sucked away,
The bones running dry, shrugging off streetlight,
Old bodies stumbling blind along the rooms
Slumping like a stack of laundry, in mirrored darkness.
The house had its ancestral longings, shared days
Of infancy, latching on plants, fingers,
Counting colors and years, youths counting
Petals, kisses and deaths, fighting
Their own turbulence.
The house was full, putting on its happiness shoes
While the smooth, velvety lining of curtains,
The satin soft of the children and youth mellowed in.
The house was all whispers, curls and twirls,
The twinkles of eyes, the faces of merriment.
Memories stumble at the back and beyond
Of rooms and attics, hidden away nooks
With people living, climbing up and down
The winding stairs, squeezing in sunshine, and rain.
Memories slide back and forth like wayward mercury.
Memories are the chapped feet on the spiral staircase.
The clock chimed old symphonies
Shutters clanged against the windows, the balcony of old clothes.
The house is a shadow, squatting down
Looking at the faces amidst the noise,
The sudden consensus to give it away,
Revamp it, in opportune time.
The house will be going down into holes,
Generations of building up, love forming
Zooming, spinning in, fragrance of cooked food,
Wiped away. The house is crying inside,
Pining for love, and nourishment.