Thursday, August 2, 2012

Abinash C. Halder at the Library

Here at the halls beneath canopy of roots
We’ve trespassed in stealth among beavers and worms
That scatter into hundreds of tunnels they’ve drilled
In search of our scraps full of forgettable trace
That somehow might weave a new pattern for a code,
Joined into syntax of chromosomal nodes.

I’ve filled in my forms and quietly now wait
And browse through the volumes of disposable thought.

Wonder what lies in the archival shelves,
Now beneath cobwebs of unshakeable dust,
That sweeps through my heart and harks for a name
In these our nights full of murders on streets.

Ripened to the core, new fruits now will burst
And dripping with blood shall drench our roots.

Shorn of all stars, we wander and grope
And bide our time with snakes within sand.

Excavating scrolls that’ll wither in a trice
My uncertain purpose will hardly suffice.

Is this then a show? Digression in vain?
How else to now sew this rent piece of time,
That serves as a window to entrails of shame
Here, in the ebbtide of shingles unswept?

Fearful of streets that’ve spawned so much gore
I snuggle into pages from time’s torrid womb
And dream of new days from truncated scrolls,
Cosy in chairs full of cushions and lace. 


Anonymous said...

We collect disposable thoughts while treating life as disposable.

Getting a blind respite from the outside world via a place of insight is a great play on concepts.

Matthew John Davies said...

The external act of archeology and inner history as overriding it is a theory of mine.

So many unique phrases here, the second-stanza I'll travel with.

aprille said...

Comfort and decoration still snuck into your comfort blanket hide-out :-)
Self defence. As it the mysterious fact that we never accept our own personal disposal as fact.
We see others' lives as terminal, but never our own. There's a lot more in your poetry, which will take closer scrutiny for me to fully understand.

Mary said...

Ah yes, filling in the forms and then waiting: how many times don't we do this in our lives! I like 'bide our time with snakes wihin sand.' Portrays to me the thought that sometimes waiting can be torturous! A strong write, Abin!

Scarlet said...

You write your angst very well...I like the ending lines, gore in the streets contrasting with cosy chairs of lace ~

Eileen T O'Neill ..... said...


The use or misuse of precious time.
Time to see the real world, while dealing with the trivia of life itself....


Unknown said...

I am of the same ilk... research, learn, try to understand. Words mined from past times help me understand the here and now. So well done, Abin.

Daydreamertoo said...

I've often thought about how we would complain to the authorities if we see graves in the present being damaged, desecrated and yet, we do exactly the same to the ancient burial grounds trying to discover our past roots.
These lines spoke to me:

'Shorn of all stars, we wander and grope
And bide our time with snakes within sand.

Excavating scrolls that’ll wither in a trice
My uncertain purpose will hardly suffice.'

This poem has so many layers which need to be read more than once to begin to fathom their depths.
Awesome write.

Kerry O'Connor said...

This does make one wonder what real purpose archives serve, when much of the stored paper is forgotten, damaged or eaten by insects.. all that human thought and possibility, and we are so eager to keep it somehow. Guess that's why they invented the web.

Mary B. Mansfield said...

I love the thought of "snuggling into pages from time's torrid womb," even if those pages can become a bit fragile. Quite a thought-provoking poem!

Susie Clevenger said...

Excavating what is hidden to feed it to the worms on our quest to discover what was hoping it will enhance our now. So many excellent and unique phrases in this. Great piece!

Kay L. Davies said...

Fabulous write, Abin.
I've always been fascinated by archaeology and anthropology,

Dennis Go said...

Poetry about a visit to the Library... This is just awesome. Well written mate!

Jinksy said...

You've woven past an present in a most unusual fashion here. Both exist, with or without archived evidence...

Chèvrefeuille said...

Wonderfully crafted poem, I have read it twice to feel the poem in my veins.

Anonymous said...

I felt the pace and rhythm of this draw me in as I read, and it became stronger as the poem progressed, so it was good to end up in the cosy chair at the end.