MOHIT MITRA Poet Rhyme

Infant at the Hearth

I came where warmth had learnt to outlast flame,
   Not by ascent, but by remaining near;
 The vapour lifted, paused, then forgot my name,
   As steam does—faithful only to the air.


The vessel bore the grammar of long hands:
   Its rim worn thin by wrists that came and went.
 One palm approached—then checked itself—no bans,
   Just habit pausing into judgment spent.


This broth had practised patience twenty years;
   I counted weeks—my age still learning weight.
 Here time was tasted, not arranged in tiers:
   What lingered longest proved itself most late.


A spoon mislaid its purpose in the air;
   A line was read, misread, then left to cool.
 My verse—still breathing—entered unaware,
   Not finished, yet not asked to finish rule.


No sound accused the moment into law;
   A nod occurred—small, private, easily missed.
 Someone revised the word final with a drawl,
   Then doubted even that, as cooks insist.


Thus sense accrues the way a broth turns dense:
   By not insisting, by remaining there.
 The carrot softens into acquiescence;
   The onion learns the virtue of delay.


I broke my line—
     it did not ask for pardon.
 Not strong enough to prove, nor weak to flee;
   It stayed, the way a bowl stays warm in kitchens
 After the reason’s gone, but heat agrees.


So this—if names must be endured—is home:
   Poetry Soup said softly, once, and set aside.
 I ate among the old, unknown, unshown,
   And found that belonging does not arrive—
       it remains.

♡Like0

Share Poem

---

Post Comments

Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.

Please Login to post a comment