As it were

I grew up giving up
on a wide range of things;
my favourite pillow,
crawling, being fed,
applauded for doing
the littlest of things,
being dressed by my
parents, occupying
the window-seat of all
vehicles I thought I owned.

I do remember a sudden,
silent voice resisting,
talking back to time,
whispering in the air,
asking it to stay, 
as it were.

Retired from work,
I looked askance at the
state of affairs; severed
from life, I feel numb;
oftentimes, I have the
urge of asking a child, or
an adult if they were my
age and imagine a strange
expression on their face.

I can still walk, eat, watch
TV, stay connected with
the world, mostly with
the virtual world, do my
chores by myself.

But very soon, this time
will disappear, like camphor,
I will have to give up on
these as well; return to my
childhood for good, albeit
with the experience of an
adolescent, mature life;
I find it rather comical
that I will still not have
learned the art of giving
up; I can clearly listen
to the voice screeching 
everywhere on my behalf,
as it were.

© supratik 2021
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Stormwolf

Hi Supratik 🙂 I hope you don’t mind me saying I have seen your poetry going from strength to strength over the years. Your work flows effortlessly. Retired from work, I looked askance at the state of affairs; severed from life, I feel numb; oftentimes, I have the urge of asking a child, or an adult if they were my age and imagine a strange expression on their face. I can surely relate. I simply cannot comprehend how quickly my life has passed and how many other things I may have achieved if things were different. I could have done so many… Read more »

Stormwolf

Hi again Supratik, We have several writers here with English as a second language. Off the top of my head we have Nic (Greek) and Yukta (German I think) but we also had several writers who were Indian. We had Frederick who was a Dane I think…many more. Oh my memory frustrates me because I remember their work! The lovely lady who is a rheumatologist, wrote such spiritual poetry … the names will come back to me. Then another Indian lady who wrote a beautiful poem about schoolchildren making their noisy way down the street in the Monsoon. The imagery… Read more »

Last edited 3 months ago by stormwolf
Dodgem

It’s hard to add to what Alison has already said. But this is a poem to come back to; to delve into. What is it saying to me? Is it about growing old – looking at possible dementia? Or is simply the human condition we are all (or some of us) experiencing in lock-down. And the art of giving up – is it not so hard to do? Anyway, another sublime poem.

Best….Dougie

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