Behind her words, her eyes, her "I don't cry easily", you see the deeper request, the unspoken plea, "See me as I once used to be, this is not me........"
Is there a greater gift, than really really listening?
My Grandmother's House
Kamala Das
There is a house now far away where once
I received love...That woman died
The house withdrew into silence, snakes moved
Among books. I was then too young
To read, and my blood turned cold
like the moon.
How often I think of going
There, to peer through the blind eyes of windows, or
Just listen to the frozen air,
Or in wild despair, pick an armful of
Darkness to bring it here to lie
Behind my bedroom door,
like a brooding dog.....
You cannot believe, darling,
Can you, that I lived in such a house, and
was proud, and loved....I who have lost
My way and beg now at strangers' doors to
Receive love, at least in small change?
Is there a greater gift, than really really listening?
My Grandmother's House
Kamala Das
There is a house now far away where once
I received love...That woman died
The house withdrew into silence, snakes moved
Among books. I was then too young
To read, and my blood turned cold
like the moon.
How often I think of going
There, to peer through the blind eyes of windows, or
Just listen to the frozen air,
Or in wild despair, pick an armful of
Darkness to bring it here to lie
Behind my bedroom door,
like a brooding dog.....
You cannot believe, darling,
Can you, that I lived in such a house, and
was proud, and loved....I who have lost
My way and beg now at strangers' doors to
Receive love, at least in small change?
1 comment:
Thank you for posting this poem. It speaks and questions on various levels and I think I'd rather let the thinking get to me in a solitary time.
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