Gopal Lahiri- A Poem

Tuning Fork

A quiet morning, un-summoned

To hear how much

In a series of snapshots,

edges of drawn blind

hard wired into cracks of light.

Each lunch time is a long table

Brings down the dusty afternoon on it.

Each sunset is an orange yellow globe

Worth nothing, yes, nothing.

In between there are hours of void.

Unknowingly, a voice shut away.

In a series of letters, that’s a life’s work,

Something like a hum spreading across

Any moment there will be sighs and tears.

Gently, very gently, grow into each other

The pace of it, the rhythm, beyond reach.

A resonance so painful, slips out of range

Left vibrating the tuning fork.

It’s reflective passage over mussed canvas,

Falls into disuse later,

As if we have learnt something from

The pattern of tears around.