Wednesday, 5 March 2025

Burning candles

 Burning candles








It was a quarter past seven,
when the lights went out.
With the candle lit
its flame made a flicker with my sighs,
I sit here, at the table,
My head bent low,
And now begin to write...

I feel at home,
And here lie the objects that
hush down that crimson silence,
growing within my soul...

Father's comb holds a few grays,
He has aged
Why...it seldom occured to me,
Must I blame his childish grin that's there to stay...
In this room it echoes
in crimson waves.

Mother's kettle, with its broken spout
Still pours us tea every morning,
A gift received on her wedding day
it paints a portrait of her marriage.

And then those nitty gritty bits
that make living better.
A sausage pan with tea stained cups,
Delineate the events of that day...
Father rushed with the cup in hand,
"The tea wasn't brewed with ginger" he had complained.

These objects,they belong here,
and have aged along with me,
But it's this dying light
that cast their oblong shadows in my mind.

And as the candle light dies,
these objects disappear into the night.
I'll see them tomorrow as well,
But tomorrow they will be things of yesterday..
Until a crimson glow from a candle flame,
makes me write about them
yet again...

  • writeandscribble's profile picture

    Poem- Burning candles

    It was a quarter past seven,
    when the lights went out.
    With the candle lit
    its flame made a flicker with my sighs,
    I sit here, at the table,
    My head bent low,
    And now begin to write...

    I feel at home,
    And here lie the objects that
    hush down that crimson silence,
    growing within my soul...

    Father's comb holds a few grays,
    He has aged
    Why...it seldom occured to me,
    Must I blame his childish grin that's there to stay...
    In this room it echoes
    in crimson waves.

    Mother's kettle,with its broken spout
    Still pours us tea every morning,
    A gift received on her wedding day
    it paints a portrait of her marriage.

    And then those nitty gritty bits
    that make living better.
    A sausage pan with tea stained cups,
    Delineate the events of that day...
    Father rushed with the cup in hand,
    "The tea wasn't brewed with ginger" he had complained.

    These objects,they belong here,
    and have aged along with me,
    But it's this dying light
    that cast their oblong shadows in my mind.

    And as the candle light dies,
    these objects disappear into the night.
    I'll see them tomorrow as well,
    But tomorrow they will be things of yesterday..
    Until a crimson glow from a candle flame,
    makes me write about them
    yet again...

Monday, 3 March 2025

The Mirror

 
The Mirror







The rusty frame contains a million bits, gathered in broken corners,

 Never reflected in the mirror,

It's a mute spectator to the woman you were and 

to the woman who gazes into the mirror today,

Tracing every wrinkle, the greys

and every little hair out of place.


 The rusty frame; a Monument,

 It must contain the soil and dust from that suitcase,

the one in which it traveled all the way up here!

It must have been a steel suitcase then,

Like it always has been shown,

in those movies that have aged along with you..


The steel box must have been held by Grandfather

And the mirror must have rattled around a bit in the journey...

 It embodies the man and the father he was.

Distant like most, 

But then, he remembered to pack for you this mirror;

His acceptance of your journey into womanhood,

 And his reminder for you,

To neatly tuck your hair, and line your doe eyes with Kohl.

Something he used to do,

Before dropping you off at school.


I wonder what you must have felt... 

Your young 21-year-old self,

dressing in front of this rectangular frame!

I wonder if you felt the pride of surviving this strange city,

Its language and people welcoming you with Dandelion garlands. 

Its winters , cracking your skin,

And freezing the coconut oil that Grandma had made!



I wonder if you knew 

That decades later,

Your daughter would sit here,

 Trying to trace within this rusty rectangular frame,

Even a quarter of the strength that you've held for decades.


I don't see it now, I don't think I ever will...

Your reflection mother- a mirage, spilling beyond this little space!