Wednesday, 23 June 2010

I've been waiting too long

I've been waiting too long under the cypress
breathing death, sucking the honey out of
the maze of the honey-makers, the bees making
a buzzing sound, the monotonous drone of
everyday plebeian existence. I've been
waiting too long, and it drizzles intermittently
the bittersweet odour of incense and
sandalwood, overpowering the senses.
They say it is autumn.

I've been thinking too much, savouring the oak
and pine, the evergreen survives the winter.
Then of course the dryness
of snow-it hasn't yet been established
what causes blindness. I had seen the swallow
fly to warmer climes. But like Thumbelina
I married a mole.
Languished in darkness.

I've been breathing your smell, and you
smell like what's lost, which has a smell of
its own. Neither incense nor sandalwood
nor cypress nor pine could ever divine
the smell of loss. Lavender and myrtle
sweet and horrid potpourri.
Fading leaves, pressed to remind.
Frozen flowers in embalmed hours.
Dried to remain.
(Nothing remains.)

What is the smell of loss?
What is the taste of death?
What is the sound of thought?
I knew, I knew
The swallow flew
And I forgot.


Baudolino said...

Ahona...aami jaani naa ki bolbo.aami ei kobitaa-taa pore shokaalbelaa ektaa chor khaawaar moto chomke uthechhi. etaa oshaamaanno.

Anurima. said...

Your poem has a mysterious scent of its own. Nostalgic, full of longing, bitter sweet.

I loved it.

Priyanka said...

I love this, many many associations. Thumbelina ekta cruel cruel byapaar.

AUROBOROS banerjee said...

This is not a follow up to kaalker effort, this can't be. If it's the same genius that took the form of verses, then even the phoenix is but a maudlin street-side card gambit in comparison, not a rejuvenator of the selfsame spirit. or faculty. or genius. or inspiration. or essence. or life.

if you keep playing with this fire, one day you'll eventually burn yourself. until that day, we shall continue to be mesmerized, with chained breath. and wasted self-worth.

Elendil said...

Brilliant. It has a Keatsian feel to it. Over-ripe images of decay, repetitive sounds, a certain tactile quality, sickly sweet smells, isolation and longing.

I love the irregular rythm, the broken, jangling lines, the often prosy dragging of the words. And your typically powerful little stanza-enders, hanging like a stray thought - 'But like Thumbelina I married a mole' ...'The swallow flew/And I forgot'.

A lot of stray references, bits of yourself, your life and experiences pouring in too. Your usual obsessions, death, thought, loss, meaninglessness, but put together very tangibly. I can see you *felt* this poem. It lacks your usual wit too, which is a good thing, because this poem would have been ruined by wit.

That said, Panda, you sound like a bitter old woman. I mean if you really were a bitter old woman, this would be no surprise. But come on, you're young and alive. Stop sounding so depressed. Write us one about potty. Life is not that hard anyway.