Bio Note: I have returned to my first love, that is, poetry in the twilight of my academic innings and am thoroughly enjoying this fresh lease on life. I live in Kolkata with my husband, daughter and adorable pup, Pixie. I have been published in Spadina Literary Review, The Pangolin Review and The Wild Word.
How will it all end? Like ice in sherbet, Cubes of daylight melting Into the rose crush of sunset? Or in the wink of an eye Which refuses to shut When expected to die, Blinking instead with a sigh? Life doesn’t gather, as one knows Into neat endings Like those in stories But sometimes continues after the end, Plodding on without a clue, Its protagonists wander Beyond the plot In a perennial postscript.
He always knew When she crept into herself, That sudden retreat into silence Without any words having been said Or exchanges traded. A deep and deafening silence Like that buried beneath layers Of lost civilizations, the lingering, Hovering echoes of the ages, Which crystallize into a domestic dirge. The music of the house Took up the cue And wove its subtle symphony, Capturing through its dissonant riffs The minutiae of their misery. The brisk drawing of the curtains, The click of a spectacles case shut, Decisive scraping of a chair put back, Smart rustle of a newspaper settling Into brittle bytes of blankness. The dismissive click of a cup Set back on its saucer, That sound of a door being shut, somewhere, All these and more Tell their story of endings, Not necessarily closures, But mechanical measures Of withdrawals in wintry woods Down the bends of mossy roads And lonely, cobbled corners. No sounds, save The plaintive percussions Of a relationship on hold, Till the signals come on again Amidst the crackling static of the lines.
©2021 Ajanta Paul
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