Saturday, June 16, 2012

Paint and Turpentine and I

Turpentine, O Turpentine!
How I recall this scent of thine
Which oft into my nostril would
Creep from yon newly polished wood
Along with Paint, thy cousin fair,
When fresh, whose fragrance too was there.
You hail fresh starts and ventures new;
To my cold casket from the pew,
Always together were we three:
The two of you and one of me.
When I was but a newborn child
And carried home in arms so mild
And tender, what should boldly wait,
But of mine home, the painted gate;
And inside: tables, polished, gleaming,
Silently heard my shrill screaming.
Unfamiliar with your scent,
I wept until my tears were spent.
But soon I grew to love thee, Paint
And Turpentine, even when faint,
I would rejoice when you were there,
Which, since forever in repair
Was my house, I would always find
You waiting only to remind
Me that though mortals always fade,
Your musk forever will pervade
All houses, halls and institutions
Like the one where all my tuitions
From the tender age of five
Till eighteen, when I learnt to drive,
Were given to me that I may
Become a learned man one day.
And still, today, thy gentle vapours
Will remind me of the capers
That I had while still a child
Whose curiosity ran wild
Except when I would kneel in church
As Jesus Christ, from his high perch,
Would send your scents from far away
To me as I would kneel and pray
Because he and his giant, sainted
Cross had just been polished, painted!
As they were when I stood standing
Right before them, smiling, handing
All my love trapped in a ring
To my bride whose bright, shimmering
Tiara, veil and gown so fair
Could not with her pure heart compare.
And Paint and Turpentine, you seemed,
(Or perhaps 'twas something I'd dreamed)
To stand by my side, silent, beaming,
Proud to see the child who, screaming,
Was presented to you all
Those years ago inside that hall
Where now I took my soul, my wife,
So that we might spend our new life
For what seemed like eternity,
But in years was but forty three,
Until far from me she one day ran
With an older, bolder man;
A beau who unlike me succeeded
Through his courtship, unimpeded,
To forever with him keep her.
And so she left with the Reaper,
Leaving me alone again,
In my large mansion by the Seine,
With tables made of gleaming pine
And you, Paint and dear Turpentine,
For we could never have a child,
To which we both were reconciled.
But as now I was left to potter,
How I wished for son or daughter
To remind me of my love
Who now looked down from up above.
Who knows how long she'll have to wait?
Not very long, because my gait
Has turned already so unsteady
And my organs all seem ready
To relax and stop their working
And so surely, there is lurking
He whose kiss, though cruel and cold,
Had turned me into a cuckold
And he shall take me to his hollow
Peaceably, for I will follow,
Meekly led by his thin hand,
To yonder silent, frozen land
Where I shall meet my turtledove
And with her look down from above;
Down at the hall that once was mine
At you, sweet Paint and Turpentine.

1 comment:

  1. the alchemy of winsome wooing....brilliant sameer...thanks for sharing...