Thursday, January 31, 2013

The Attic

the sepia memories
old hurts 
like cobwebs on patchy walls
a tangled web of grey,
the rigid verses 
of an unwritten elegy- 

picture of my  mother 
smiling wistfully at the camera
someone had clicked it years ago 
looking deep into her big black eyes...
a brocade scarf on the bureau
with tea stains on its green tassles
a muddy hue
of remorse-

an empty bottle of perfume
the fragile whiffs of her fragrance
still  trapped inside  the crystal walls
moth-eaten volume of Burns' poetry
the serrated petals of a yellow rose
a leaf still trembling on the brittle stem-

fluffs of cotton, dead feathers, dusty squiggles on the floor
the rickety wooden table
doodles on the scratchy surface
"love...forever...forever "
on a three legged chair
a blue cushion, embroidered  
with a sprig of musty wisteria-
like weeping willows

my father's old coat 
a golden pen 
tucked inside the breast pocket
a picture postcard from Venice
crushed by restless fingers
the smeared red ink
 like diluted blood
" dear"

a muggy afternoon in a corner
dark as sin

a sad evening
congealed on the dirty ceiling

blobs of sunset on the window sill
the parting glory 
the blinking tail lights
of a retreating car
 the goodbye-

the night 
when we had pressed our faces together 
and wept silver tears
you and I, moon.

© Nazia Mallick


seema said...


Basque-Land said...

This poem sort of grabbed my heart and squeezed. I miss my father. I miss my mother whose dementia has robbed her of our memories.

Nazia Mallick said...

Memories are what sustains us through the absences...
Your mother may not remember the mundane everyday things, but I am sure she will remember your glance of love,tender touches.Words.

Thanks much for stopping by,Rozanna.


Last night you wrote your sonnets in  Braille: the commas, parenthesis, ellipses engraved perfectly on my skin- and  I  ...