Teesta Review: A Journal of Poetry, Volume 3, Number 2. November 2020. ISSN: 2581-7094
The Jasmine Hint
In the
languid hours
of the endless
locked-down afternoons
I happened to stroll up
the dormant stairs to the terrace
only to hit upon the long-unheeded
quaint part of my house
The attic!
With some effort
the withered wooden door
creaked apart
The
engulfing gust
of dusty smell!
The blink of
an eye
and there I was
transported to years
long-waved back
Drenched in
memories
I waded through things
once dear to me
How things
too
get ripped off
their appeal
over the furls of time!
Just as
endearing names
rendered empty
in the montage of a lifetime.
I picked up
a torn diary
Its bosom
still held the fragrance
of a few wilted jasmine
mingled with the pungent odour
of the essence of time
accumulated within
A momentous
overthrow of feel!
The tinkling
of cup and saucer
at the breakfast table,
on indolent mornings,
The freshness of the virgin jasmine
in the crystal vase,
on sunny afternoons
The melancholy of crimson sunset
arching my terrace,
on moist evenings,
The warmth of your arms
around my worries,
on wintry nights,
All that -
and that which proved to be ephemeral!
The frail
petals of the dry jasmine
Portrayed the intangibility
of moments forever waned
The intact
frame of the flowers
however,
which now made vivid
the veins on the petals
proclaimed the strength of
withered feels,
of times shoved back,
and of moments, - that remain.
Perhaps I
imagined it all!
The attic too!
Yet something
within, told me -
No matter
how far we walk ahead,
the shadows of the galaxies left behind
remain safe in the bosom
of our torn diaries -
in the form of words that find way
only to despair,
or as the wilted jasmine
whose subtle scent
fill the dusty smelling air,
Just as the
vignettes of the canvas
called time
holds in its heart all that is real,
be it arrhythmic,
or even if it rhymes!
of the endless
locked-down afternoons
I happened to stroll up
the dormant stairs to the terrace
only to hit upon the long-unheeded
quaint part of my house
the withered wooden door
creaked apart
of dusty smell!
and there I was
transported to years
long-waved back
I waded through things
once dear to me
get ripped off
their appeal
over the furls of time!
rendered empty
in the montage of a lifetime.
of a few wilted jasmine
mingled with the pungent odour
of the essence of time
accumulated within
at the breakfast table,
on indolent mornings,
The freshness of the virgin jasmine
in the crystal vase,
on sunny afternoons
The melancholy of crimson sunset
arching my terrace,
on moist evenings,
The warmth of your arms
around my worries,
on wintry nights,
and that which proved to be ephemeral!
Portrayed the intangibility
of moments forever waned
however,
which now made vivid
the veins on the petals
proclaimed the strength of
withered feels,
of times shoved back,
and of moments, - that remain.
The attic too!
the shadows of the galaxies left behind
remain safe in the bosom
of our torn diaries -
in the form of words that find way
only to despair,
or as the wilted jasmine
whose subtle scent
fill the dusty smelling air,
called time
holds in its heart all that is real,
be it arrhythmic,
or even if it rhymes!