How may we labour
To save ourselves?
Shall we gather about us
Bulwarks of uncertainty
To guard us from future
Arrogance? Shall we collect
Images of unaccommodated mankind
That we may be protected
From fears of ennui, enclosed
In our own four walls. Will
The memory of mountains
Not seen in decades ensure
Our survival as a species?
For myself, I call forth
The blazing amaltas that
Flame the streets of my city
That their fire consume the
Distance between us, and
Refine my relief to pity.
How curious, this motley masquerade
To sashay forth in some carnival’s
Parade as if the gold and dazzle and points
Of lace could present to the crowds some
Other soul, an alien head, a faerie face.
What deception is left to practice now
When we hide ourselves from neighbours
And friends. Will we know each other, when
This ends, or shall we hear each stranger ask
Who are you now, without your mask?
I hadn’t seen the house. He hadn’t seen
The table. We were buying momentous
Things for a future in which we’d never
Been. “Bigger,” he said, “tell them to make it
Wider and longer!” “Where will we place it?”
I said, looking at the dimensions he’d sent us.
But the size of a table depends on more than
How many sit. My parents knew – if you
Build it they will come. And we did. Their
Table held more than ever lived in that
House. There was always room, food,
Conversation. And now we live in self-
Isolation. And the too-big table draws
Together our meagre four – with our
Violins, our laptops, our books, tools, papers
Our cat, puzzles, painting projects – more,
In fact, a binding and gathering of ourselves
To ourselves, a tabling of a core.
Hail to thee, O Ordinary Thing! Beloved
Thou never wert! If of thee I must sing
To the romantics I must revert. Because
Seriously, who even notices a handshake,
Buying bread, passing people in the hall
Whose eye you avoid if you look at them at
All? High fives, fist bumps, chatting with
An office-mate, having to trudge to lunch
Another building, same office bunch- huddle
Close in the elevator discussing what you
Ate. Yes, it is sublime, in its
Way, the unwashed beauty of the
Ordinary day, the unnoticed, unapplauded
Transience of the repetitively mundane
The ubiquitously profane.
Say it now in romantic rhyme
The Ordinary is the Skylark of our time.
I am afraid I will die.
Really? Here in your lovely
Voluntary exile, hibernating with
Your plants and your music and your
Elegant lounging style?
I am afraid to die. Aren’t
We all this is hardly
An emergency. I am afraid to live.
When everyone has died. Seriously
Too many bad movies is hardly cause
To summon the emergency medical
Hologram please state the
I am afraid to live as if everyone is dead.
There was that so hard? Why not just
Say so? Instead we have all this
Bleating about dolphins returning and
The new blue of the skies – true, some
Of it, but mostly photoshop and lies
I’m also afraid – oh there’s more? Where
Does it hurt I’m sure there’s a cure – that
I’m relieved to not be able you see there
Is news of thousands walking beaten
Stuffed into boxes and starving and I
Unable my hands are tied I’m self
Isolated you see couldn’t help if I
Tried but my fear is not a symptom it’s
Really my relief I’m afraid to have to
Add conviction to belief. There. Lie down.
What you’re experiencing is grief. For all
That has died around you and all
You will kill there’s not much
I can do but I will
Say this: as much as you may say that
You want this to end, get back to your
Work, meet a real friend – grief will always
Urge you to pretend that
You got this you can do this everything’s
On the mend. This shall pass too.
So lie down. Things will
Die down. As death tends to do.
Giti Chandra 