Poem
<i>Home</i>
I find a certain silence
within these covered walls and sounds
of a throbbing city outside;
car horns collide with cawing of crows,
a smell of gardenia dances with a stench of garbage
thrown every which way along the broken streets. I feel a kind of pain,
when I think about what 'home' is;
juxtaposing images of New York City
with the faded mossy walls of Banani.
The pictures in my mind slowly drip,
like rainfall slipping off guava leaves;
they seep into banks of memories
hidden in my grandmother's almirah,
locked away in blankets of innocence. I think of certain faces,
their thoughts resting upon me,
amidst skyscrapers and 'westerners',
knitting the scrap of time till my return.
I place myself in that home,
watching colored beads of various emotions
come cascading down listlessly,
waiting for a beginning that ended long ago.
I find myself in this home,
where the air breathes the past,
flickering like a fluorescent tubelight,
hiding my detachment under the bed
as the present wavers mockingly.
The worlds inside me come to a standstill;
images turned upside down,
like stagnant raindrops on a car window,
momentarily lit up by passing neon lights. The surrounding silence exhales with me,
the fragrance of flowers begin to fade
as my soul takes a midnight stroll
along the shores of Long Island,
beneath the bridges of Manhattan,
within the streets of Dhaka,
up on the roof of Banani.
Slowly and uncertainly it comes to rest,
quietly floating somewhere in between. Rabab Ahmed lives in New York, and recently completed a Masters in English Lit from Rutgers University, USA.
within these covered walls and sounds
of a throbbing city outside;
car horns collide with cawing of crows,
a smell of gardenia dances with a stench of garbage
thrown every which way along the broken streets. I feel a kind of pain,
when I think about what 'home' is;
juxtaposing images of New York City
with the faded mossy walls of Banani.
The pictures in my mind slowly drip,
like rainfall slipping off guava leaves;
they seep into banks of memories
hidden in my grandmother's almirah,
locked away in blankets of innocence. I think of certain faces,
their thoughts resting upon me,
amidst skyscrapers and 'westerners',
knitting the scrap of time till my return.
I place myself in that home,
watching colored beads of various emotions
come cascading down listlessly,
waiting for a beginning that ended long ago.
I find myself in this home,
where the air breathes the past,
flickering like a fluorescent tubelight,
hiding my detachment under the bed
as the present wavers mockingly.
The worlds inside me come to a standstill;
images turned upside down,
like stagnant raindrops on a car window,
momentarily lit up by passing neon lights. The surrounding silence exhales with me,
the fragrance of flowers begin to fade
as my soul takes a midnight stroll
along the shores of Long Island,
beneath the bridges of Manhattan,
within the streets of Dhaka,
up on the roof of Banani.
Slowly and uncertainly it comes to rest,
quietly floating somewhere in between. Rabab Ahmed lives in New York, and recently completed a Masters in English Lit from Rutgers University, USA.
For all latest news, follow The Daily Star's Google News channel.
Comments