My National Poetry Month challenge to myself has become a collaboration between synaesthetic artist Sammy-John, myself, Anjum Wasim Dar and Jay Gandhi: Day Four: In Grandpa’s Garage

Grandpa's Garage

In Grandpa’s Garage

newly built an inch wider to regain
the stolen boundary taken by the neighbour’s new fence.

Everything placed around the edges is a space
for grandad’s Ford Popular I let rot on my dad’s driveway,

so it had to be taken away.  Turpentine and dripped paint, swarfega
and rotted grass cuttings, small Golden Syrup tins, strawberry jam

glass bottles full of nails, light grey concrete flags lean against each other
dominoes caught in mid fall. Old bicycle clips to hold back the flap

of his uniform trousers as he rode up and down Harrogate hills
on his official black Post Office bike.

Memories must be binned, charity shopped or auctioned.

by Paul Brookes

A sacred temple it seems to be, or perhaps Plato’s cave
illumined by the good sun, enlightenment streams upon
Precious relics, contraptions to some, laid in order, nuts
bolts tools nails and pails, brushes brooms and  sticks
Collected  in time, oleaginous ? No, polished  defying
destructive distortion, ask the one who perceives them
As priceless  treasures.

What tins and cans  magically dark
what pieces white in artistic grandeur
Wires draping coiled or swinging low ,
like lace, and on  golden black patched
Carpet rests the sharp tailed  royal Chevy
so loved valued , a vintage,  a passionate
Revelation, engulfed in oil scented aura
tranced in multifarious colors-  transformed-
Ah to another  garage in another time where
a jute woven charpoy, an Indian hookah placed
As serving guard, a pair of rubber slippers
on the floor, packing crates stacked  with some
old used leather suitcases , a small wooden table
a jug and glass and some books, was all the label
doorless  space but with a roof, illumined by
the good sun, smoke rising from the mud stove
The aura of freshly cooked wheat filled the air.

By Anjum Wasim Dar

Stars

Stars are already dead
or are dead people stars…
Every person becomes a star
after leaving earth and
he becomes one because
he doesn’t wish to leave!
Myth has it that he passes
out in the mornings. That’s
codswallop. Fact is that
he  sleeps underneath
the blanket of the clouds.
Delhi often misses seeing
its forefathers and it has
only itself to blame:
Smog is such that stars
f
a
d
e
away
Stars are the ghosts
that we can see with
our naked eyes
After death, one becomes
a Big-Boss. One can see
everything. Just can’t
speak up. Sometimes his
sound manifests into our inner
voice. It refrains us from
doing wrong.
And that is the wavelength
between us and our ancestors.
By Jay Gandhi

One thought on “My National Poetry Month challenge to myself has become a collaboration between synaesthetic artist Sammy-John, myself, Anjum Wasim Dar and Jay Gandhi: Day Four: In Grandpa’s Garage

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