there was a home;
a faded picture of togetherness,
smell of farming, cows, cats, hens,
the feeling of being a child, well
loved;
some walkways get overgrown with
weeds…
there was a home, or
rather my grandfather;
he was, stories of a faraway land,
of dams being built, of forests,
animals
and funny paranormal tales;
he was, reading newspapers for him
and writing letters to his friends,
his eyes failed him, I became his
eyes;
he was, the short breaks we took
while we walked, to soothe his
paining leg;
he was, the faint old gramophone songs;
he was, the three-time prayers, daily;
the smell of agarbathis, flowers, a
little pot of water
and the chanting, the feeling of being
connected;
some walkways get overgrown with
weeds…
a home, a person, the earliest strong
memories of life,
the base of life;
the home is gone,
he is gone…
you keep seeking that walkway all your life;
the feeling of being welcomed to home and love,
you know it is a mirage, but you
keep seeking
like
a lost child…
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I like the way you have included the smell of farming in the first stanza, Sreeja - smell seems to be the strongest sense of home. You've painted such a clear picture of your grandfather and his stories of a faraway land and faint old gramophone songs. I love the recurrence of the walkways overgrown with weeds that lead finally to the lost child… Full of longing and beautifully touched with sensual imagery.
ReplyDeleteSuch a tender poem.. I am glad you have the memories to travel back to
ReplyDeleteWhat a gorgeous but sad reminiscence of who you were. If we looked back to our own childhood we would also find such touching tales of our lives as they used to be. Lets hope our children and grandchildren will also have such recollections.
ReplyDeleteThis is so touching and poignant.
ReplyDeleteLast month, I lost my grandmother and therefore, I could totally relate to the nostalgia, pain and longing reflected in the poem.
'he was, the three-time prayers, daily;
ReplyDeletethe smell of agarbathis, flowers, a little pot of water
and the chanting, the feeling of being connected;'....so beautiful...
So beautiful that you've carried on his memory in your lovely poem. It is our responsibility to pass on to the next generation the stories and memories that are the fabric of our lives. You've done it so beautifully here.
ReplyDeleteLuv the walkway note, popping up like the weeds
ReplyDeleteMuch love...
Some walkways are overgrown... yes.
ReplyDeleteI can still think that those memories cannot fade, love what you can still can see in a walkway.
ReplyDeleteLove the message. Great as it was, my walkway has been overgrown with flowers. I couldn't help but think of this; how was grandfather's walkway? (get my meaning)
ReplyDeleteBeautiful way to be connected with your memories of this man...bkm
ReplyDeleteI liked your line, "some walkways get overgrown with weeds". Bad?
ReplyDeleteBut there is some good I am sure. Like, we can still see the path and won't mire down in the mud. Or, stumble through the weeds but enjoy the wildflowers.
..
Thank you all...flowers of course...!
ReplyDeletePoignant!
ReplyDelete