Wednesday, June 27, 2012

Logbooks of Loss

My dried old walls, now deafened with screams
Lose their plasters and grimace into cracks
That shape into maps that'll wither and fold
And never speak a word of gardens in bloom
where we would walk and share our songs
In days that have left no traces in RAM
In these, our logbooks of loss.

Trudging without end of sores among thorns
Ours are gestures of refugees in camps
Who are told their rations are gone.

What names or faces or streets now are us?
Miles upon miles of disposable waste
And still not a plant for light from our trash.


17 comments:

Jack said...

Your integration of poetry with modern, workaday elements truly impresses me.

Old Ollie said...

Thanks for the encouraging words. I too like how you have made your poetry modern and authentic.

Mary said...

"Miles upon miles of disposable waste
And still not a plant for light from our trash"

--Definitely a comment on today's times, Abin! Sadly enough.

Kerry O'Connor said...

The personification of the old wall is inspired in this poem, Abin.

Laura Maria said...

Your piece is raw without sacrificing any of the beauty in poetry.

Sherry Blue Sky said...

"Our logbooks of loss" - so poignant, Abin. Such a stark line: "refugees...who are told their rations are gone." Striking writing.

HaikuWater said...

Visiting from Poetry Pantry. Imagining and remembering days that have left no traces in RAM -- marvelous!!

Rosemary Nissen-Wade said...

I admire the way the first verse is all one sentence. This piece is sad, yet with its own beauty; I admire that too.

Karishma Shetty said...

I love the description of a dilapidated wall... and the way you trail your thoughts to what's lost with the passage of time. Nice!

TALON said...

Such stark and wonderful imagery. Yes, it seems we might bury ourselves in our trash eventually...

Laurie Kolp said...

Very thought-provoking!

hedgewitch said...

The ending is very profound, to me, and yet said without any bias or weight--iow, poetry. Excellent images throughout this piece, and what are our memories but logbooks of every crash and blue screen?

Heaven said...

I feel your despair and frustration at the ways of our times. We should be blooming gardens, instead of trash ~ Enjoyed the visit Abin ~

Herotomost said...

"in these, our logbooks of loss" How effing awesome is that line. Your voice is so naturally cross-culture, not exactly sure what that means, but it makes me feel warm and hopeful even in the din of reality that you paint with a teachers eye. I feel like looking at you and not so much making a decision to follow along, but more like we were all born to follow along. Enough rambling, sorry, I just like your voice...hows that.

Margaret said...

...a wake up call, this poem.

Sreeja said...

So much there....the last lines are simply great...

Aidz Giannini said...

Enjoyed the ebb and low.....