Friday, August 24, 2007

The Grey Glory of Solitude



in this stillness.

so it's possible to forget motion.

to think
grow on trees
and ledges

and window-hinges
are rusted

One can believe

that the puckered lips
frozen on the sill
never speak

that the doughy thighs
nailed to the chair
can't tremble,

or part.

And the snapshot hours pass
frozen in guttered frames:

All through the day I work.

Filed away for future reference
the days pile up.

Partho Chakrabarrty

1 comment:

sheece said...

splendid... the poem is alive. it is actually possible and may be true that birds grow on trees. beautiful. Subhanallah