by JAYDEEP SARANGI
My Father’s House
My dreams are lingering in the dusk.
I plant them in the garden of faith
behind the bedroom, next to the guava tree,
I see him sitting, reading and returning to my unsaid words for him.
Searching under these old books of Mathematics
for the last place where the long
journey with my father’s hopes is complete--
Ashoka, the great to Attila, the Hun
distinct nights snarl deep as I leave myself for the world.
Neruda to Seferis, Quasimodo to Jibananada
I feel the wind on my skin, bites of unfamiliar insects
takes the soul goes low and high in life’s second half.
acquired habits know to say nothing, the conch shell breaks.
I read Neruda each time I visit an ancient town
recollect them after light empting in a silent evening.
I return to the Nightingales each night when thoughts are deep
I built a home at Hampstead, I visit the clinic alone.
With him I follow time’s relentless wheel pressing for house gods
tracing back from Udayagiri caves to Barabati forte and the Kalinga kings.
Happy dress I wear is a false ceiling of my syllables.
Hungry wants flying in the whispering sky, searching for a good nest.
Today I have no more alphabets to return
only I wish wet-dreams of my father on my forehead.
More agonies I lift, lull the rough storms inside,
Learning to make fire under an empty sky
among the human ruins I rediscover my father’s house.
Last updated April 11, 2025