Saturday, August 13, 2011

Notes from a Disguised Kitchen

Sometimes something as simple as a cookie case, a petal, a pencil sharpener or a scrap of news on an old newspaper can create a myriad cluster of thoughts, a sudden inspiration, a half-day worth of possibilities, a life-time of magic.
Trees does this to me all the time, I can never get over that feeling of saudade when I see a tree, especially a coniferous tree.

The cough syrup bottle broke yesterday. Through the broken glass pieces the world became amber-hued as though steeped in a sea of rich forest honey.
In those moments, memories of bygone longings come flooding by and I feel nostalgic about things I’ve never experienced, about a life that I never lived. In such instances I ask the dead poets to sing to me the purple song and colour the air with vaporous bliss.


Each night the stars percolate in through the roof and sprinkle down on me and I wake up with my face covered in dew-wet petals, little miracles left behind by the stars melting on my skin.
I live in a kitchen. It was built to be used as a kitchen, it was meant to be a kitchen. A cement counter runs all around, there is a hole on it for the tube of the LPG cylinder to pass through, a tiny window and a large sink. Yet it's no longer a kitchen, I live there, I revel there, I rot there.

The kitchen sink has inspired several stories, imaginings and promises in my head. The ever-leaky tap has filled my nights with vague terrors; the drip-drip-drip... measures my heart beats, gives punctuations to my musings and turn into bizarre sign posts and street lights in my obscure nightmares.
Some days the water stops and the dreamy songs rise from the tap's dry throat. The song lights up its infantile mouth as it floats out, a yellow curling ray of light that fills the room with music.

I pray to myself each day, to be light, free and forgiving.

1 comment:

athiran said...

Trees -- Joyce Kilmer

(For Mrs. Henry Mills Alden)

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.