deepundergroundpoetry.com
O p e r a
I bit my nail
I bit my tongue
and even fingers
I suffered from melancholia
and trichotillomania
I unsuccessfully tried
to drown myself
And a few days later
the plumber had to come
I remember there was fur on the seat-
quite a few of those-soft and white
Then there were gifts and chocolates
mostly Swiss and some American as well
One day I choked on a cookie and passed put
The maid who saved me lost her job
Mom sat next to me whole day
I smiled
The next time I choked
I ended up in the cold white room
He was short, a stub of a man
with a thinning hair line
Mom talked to him as I looked
at the photographs
Trees-stones-caves-statues-clouds-
butterflies-lake
The pink pills made me tired
and there was no school
But afterwards there were more
thuds-crashes-stifled sobs-noise
Then one day there were a lot of people
And they took him away
My father
He never returned
neither did the parrots or the kitten
This time no plumber was summoned
Granny was nicer than everyone
and her stories were better-than-before
Mom drank-chewed-popped
pills-syrup-medicine
She could not talk-walk much
nor it was expected
One day she hit me
in the head
More people-noise-smells-whispers
A few days later I took the pellet rifle
one of the two doves on the perch flew
her last fight that day
I was the messiah from Granny’s story
The one who could end the misery
Mom went back on vacation
Granny started to become gruff
But there was someone-
a teacher who wrote a nice hand
slant-cursive with long tails
and longer flourishes
She always smiled
and patted my back
from time to time
One day I kissed her
on her cheeks
and she broke down
I never saw her again
Instead I was taken
to the cold white room
Another man-
cropped hair-spectacles-thin moustache
He listened to music all day
with thick drapery all around
that resulted in a comforting darkness
eerie-stifling-absorbent
Pavroti he said as he hugged me
and kissed my hands
I returned to granny with a box of cookies
and tried not to think of the rich colours
of the room inside
rather focused on white
Next time the room did not scare
me so much as the music
And the hair on the hands-
coarse, oily and bitter.
Photograph courtsey-Mehmet Turgut
Published 7th Jan 2012
| Edited 20th Feb 2012
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 3
reading list entries 1
comments 4
reads 923
Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.
7th Jan 2012 10:37pm
said about a life in so short a narration. Flesh out and be a short story in an anthology of stories, I say. Sumeet, versatile writer, poet.
8th Jan 2012 6:40pm
Grace
Thank you as ever.
That was quite an idea.
Would give it a thought.
:)
S'
Thank you as ever.
That was quite an idea.
Would give it a thought.
:)
S'
13th Jun 2012 7:44pm
It's beautiful, you've written this like the thoughts and feelings of a child. You make some things brighter, more important and focus on simple things like how "granny was nicer than everyone". Everything between is summed up as "people-noise-smells-whispers", it really does add a deeper insight into the subject of the poem.
[Sorry I haven't commented for "awhile", I'll have to make up for lost time ;)]
[Sorry I haven't commented for "awhile", I'll have to make up for lost time ;)]
14th Jun 2012 1:29pm
Duncan
Thank you again. For the usual reason.:)
You are right about the perspective of a child. I had been to a child psychologist long time back[almost 17 years] and that bitter Hitchcockian experience still fuels my angst. I have a very controversial frame of mind regarding therapy and try to caputre it in my poetry.
And you are also right about the aspects of living from the narattor's PoV. In a troubled childhood most of the key areas of existence is just a blur. And small is beautiful.
Makes me happy that you could relate to it.:)
Light,
Sumeet
p.s-I did not really mean that.:) I still remember the first time you had read one of my poems[It was again about therapy] and I was very pleased. Cos' no joy can match what you feel when the reader connects the dots. You had shown that and I will always remember that poem for you.[A mix of literal, personal and existential deconstruction] So it would mean a lot if I can repeat that.
Thank you again. For the usual reason.:)
You are right about the perspective of a child. I had been to a child psychologist long time back[almost 17 years] and that bitter Hitchcockian experience still fuels my angst. I have a very controversial frame of mind regarding therapy and try to caputre it in my poetry.
And you are also right about the aspects of living from the narattor's PoV. In a troubled childhood most of the key areas of existence is just a blur. And small is beautiful.
Makes me happy that you could relate to it.:)
Light,
Sumeet
p.s-I did not really mean that.:) I still remember the first time you had read one of my poems[It was again about therapy] and I was very pleased. Cos' no joy can match what you feel when the reader connects the dots. You had shown that and I will always remember that poem for you.[A mix of literal, personal and existential deconstruction] So it would mean a lot if I can repeat that.
