November 2022
Ajanta Paul
ajantapaul@gmail.com
Bio Note: Poetry, to me, is sometimes a slow unfurling of petals, and a rapid rush of raindrops, at others, inevitably elemental, even if it's about the melting asphalt on city roads and rattling trains through nights of nowhere. It's a slow humming in the soul as seeds begin to sprout in its soil, and the song of wings as birds take flight.

The Singing House

The house sang
in different keys
on different days, 

sometimes, a soulful aria 
that tore at the innards 
of silences sleeping in corners, 

on other days, a trippy tune,
starting, pausing, rising
in little movements of hope, 
 
a heady harmony, at others, 
modulating melodies
from a medley of sources 

as the winds of time tinkled 
the chimes of memory,
fire hissed and crackled 
on embers of passion, 

streams gurgled in pipes and taps,
lifeblood in the abode's arteries 
flowing in exquisite circuitry, 

electric fans whirred, 
cookers whistled, 
air conditioners whined
in a busy banter of gadgetry 

march of the minutes 
in the relentless tick-tock
of the clock, accelerated allegro 

precious pop of champagne corks
punctuating the grammar 
of knives and forks

along with the aspiring adagio
of dreams spreading their rustling wings
under its encouraging eaves.
©2022 Ajanta Paul
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