Monday, 20 August 2012

The back lanes of grief


Let us go back then, along the footbridge from stranger,
wider roads where the dented single-decker buses
sag with the weight of droopy passengers
breathe out a long sigh and move on. A street urchin washes
some indeterminate materials at the tube well
maybe they were once clothes, no-one can tell
what they are now, sudden onrushes
of winds? exhausts? makes them swell
out in grey and khaki. Messy romances
start and end by the wayside in sudden flashes.



Let us see if we can somehow recover
the same tracks of miracles and mistakes
though a million feet have trampled them over –
the tea-beakers shattered into terracotta flakes
mixed in now with the muddy rainmade brooks
flowing fast and surreptitious in the nooks
of the kerb and the road. But retakes
are rare.  All loving is messy if one looks
close enough, and associated heartaches
need not end though there are gaps and breaks.



The evening closes over the city and us
like the parted waters of the sea come together and close
after the gods have churned them for poisonous
swills and immortality elixirs.  The wind blows
a streamer of scorched smells from the welding workshop
over our heads. We are compelled to stop
at all the places of our past waiting in rows
to be made over into the future. The stars drop
into their spaces overhead, a bus comes and goes
without us dangling from its bony elbows. 



We’ve spent the first mists before darkness
in walking fairgrounds beside the strangely wide road -
the grasses creep up, the clots of people get less
the odd jobber wraps up his mask and electrode
the lampposts switch their lights on in one sweep.
Come now my love, along the back lanes of grief
stories may get messy but must be given what is owed -
an ending, a disclosure, and an unshaken belief
that mistakes too are precious, equally hallowed;
that its gold may be thin but will not corrode.


Linked to : Blog hop Saturday

16 comments:

  1. Come now my love, along the back lanes of grief
    stories may get messy but must be given what is owed -
    an ending, a disclosure, and an unshaken belief
    that mistakes too are precious, equally hallowed...wow really love that....your descriptions throughout are great putting us right there...and love how you come back to what you started with....really nice piece....

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    1. "There is no letter that can't form a mantra (chant, verse), there is no root that can't yield a drug, there's no human who is absolutely useless." From the hindu scriptures somewhere. In other words, there are no weeds :) so no mistakes that aren't hallowed....thanks for reading!

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  2. A very well-written poem. Love it!

    Blog hopping from Andy's blog. :)

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    Replies
    1. Thank you, Balqis. Looking fwd to hopping over to yours soon :)

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  3. Lovely poem! Congratulations!
    I am here from Blog Hopping. :)

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  4. I really enjoyed this piece. Anything as beautiful as love, deserves a full cycle and respect. Well said.

    http://lyricfire.typepad.com/lyric-fire/2012/08/lyric-fire-orange-blue-dust-a-poem-.html

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  5. "The evening closes over the city and us
    like the parted waters of the sea come together and close
    after the gods have churned them for poisonous
    swills and immortality elixirs"
    Absolutely wonderful imagery - that truly fired the imagination.
    Very nicely done.
    Dropping by from Andy's blog hop saturday. Thanks for dropping by my blogs.

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  6. Come now my love, along the back lanes of grief
    stories may get messy but must be given what is owed -
    an ending, a disclosure, and an unshaken belief
    that mistakes too are precious, equally hallowed;
    that its gold may be thin but will not corrode.

    Loved these lines....so deeply mystic!!

    Here from Andy's blog-hop :)

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    1. Thanks for hopping across :) and for your kind comment

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  7. well we learn more from the mistakes .. so yeah mistakes are important .. but REPEATING them again is not good ..


    Bikram's

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    Replies
    1. Exactly! Thanks for the visit and comment

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  8. Beautiful and deep, Nilanjana.

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