Elegy In Architecture

Elegy In Architecture elegy

Like a picture postcard from a city,
A city frozen in another time.
Living its own distorted reality,
On the mantel piece of the sky line.

The old building – a marooned ark,
Amidst that ocean of newness.
Currents that probed his skeleton so stark,
And eroded his island of sadness.

Like a painting from a disturbed dream,
An amorphous specter of shadows and light.
Strange hours when things are not what they seem,
Diffusing into the impending night.

The construction termites crept upward,
Digesting him slowly from his feet.
His creaking timber could be heard,
All through the passages of the street.

He stood in an old man’s humiliation,
Full of clumsy painful discomfort,
Unable to strike up a conversation,
His windows futilely flapping till it hurt.

The glitzy mica glass windows slid shut,
With a monosyllabic polite hiss.
A pre-occupied abruptness that cut,
The nascent words away from his lips.

The large holes on his roof like sad eyes,
Tilted heavenward, an infinite gaze,
That spanned distances and alien skies,
Into the bosom of changeless space.

Gray birds came to perch by sheer habit,
Their feathers shivering in winds of change.
Thus the ancient companions would sit,
Sharing a dialogue wordlessly strange.

Perhaps they had nothing left to say,
Draughty silences followed each sound.
Assuaged by their presence for the day,
He ebbed into the solitude profound.

Brooding elegy in architecture,
Composed for a thousand yester years.
The rain bathed his hunched structure,
And perhaps concealed his voiceless tears.

The vertigo of death grew inside him,
Contracting like a cooling universe,
And the air within grew so dense and grim,
Echoing like the judgments of a curse.

He would soon be brought down on his knee,
Like a giant oak – pummeled, stabbed and torn,
Sighing like a dying season not a tree,
And would fall with an unending groan.

Sinking down like a wounded warrior,
The gust of a million fluttering pages,
With a roar so loud that you could hear,
The voices of the bygone ages.

This poem is part of the Poetry Book “Twenty Poems of Light and Longing: Rabbit HOLE calling

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Jay Krishnan

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Always wide eyed with wonder, prone to reveries and restless with an inexplicable yearning to create ever since he was a little boy, Jay wrote his first poem when he was six. He discovered the ore of his creative endeavors in the writings of his sister from which everything else originated, in attics filled with vanilla smelling old books, in savoring the classics and in intricate poems of Wordsworth and William Blake inlaid with rhyme…. His poems have snuck under editorial radars and appeared in global anthologies, magazines, newspapers and online journals. He also runs an idea shop called the Centre of Gravity, draws cartoons, directs animated short films and conceptualizes communication campaigns. All of which originate from the same artery of poetic longing that destiny charmed into his soul.
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Your poem for sure depicts these relics of the past in a wonderful way–keeping them alive. Your words so discriptive just a fine poem.
Touch old stones and you can almost hear their life within.



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