Solitude Of The Silver Age Poem by Aniruddha Pathak

Solitude Of The Silver Age



He was back home as was every evening
From a routine wellness walk to the hill,
Temple visit and meeting and greeting
Old friends, stood brooding by the window sill,
On an eventless life that he had led,
And said aloud though not a soul was near,
Save his arthritic wife in acrid bed,
And none whoso in neighbourhood to hear:

Tell me old man, your eightieth birth day
Has come and gone like miserly monsoon
Whose grey receding clouds now scattered lay,
So be this Harvest Moon's silvery boon;
And though with due regards to your pink teeth,
I can't but feel you won't have many more
Brightest moons, nor yet feast of Pongal sweet
You like along with every guest at door.

He stood frozen, his thoughts like early birds
Chirping sharp, blunt like a barber's old blade,
And pondered on the role of candid words
In life—from varied source, of shape and shade;
And as our scriptures say, ‘Do know thyself',
As one to know the familiar voice well
That would ring in times of need a clear bell,
He stood there like an agonising elf.

The Self, thine friend, can as well be thine foe,
Try up-lift it never to undermine,
Celebrate life to be alive, and lo,
He heard from close a familiar line
Filtered through the bedroom's long ailing door:
It is time you finish your food and wine,
And felt alarmed that the call from his core—
The voice within— too can be feminine!

He filled up two wine-lets— for two of him,
Well, Mister Voice Within, just as ye say,
Here is for your benediction so grim,
And here goes one for my happiest day,
He emptied it all down his parched palate,
And turned with a swagger to other side,
Lifted the wine-let meant for his twain mate,
And downed it for friend, well-wisher and guide!

The dialogue dragged over dinner table,
That the old man had learnt to fix by now—
For him and his helpless wife, unable
To help her ailing self, and with a bow,
Well, O thou Voice within, it seems we've not
Met in this manner for a far long time,
Welcome home to celebrate here our lot,
We both suffer, for, no one is placed prime.

No more, no sir, not after such late night,
And time for you to stop too, if I may,
Getting up, raising glass to its full height,
Solemn and steady for his age, to say,
Thanks be for wonderful time together.
And stood up straight to sing Sayonara
In broken rhythm and bruised time measure,
But with a well-attuned end rhyme, Ra, Ra!

The moon privy was to his lonely moan,
A mute witness, as witnesses oft seem;
He too must make his errands all alone,
In health and happiness and in times grim,
Making two of them to ease nightly chill:
One, pushing solitude of silver age
That would turn to greyer age, weaker will,
But being mute the moon had advantage.
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This piece is about a frustrated old man. And old age is sure frustrating. We can find many such old men— token head of a divided family, children married and far, often oceans away, spending the leftover years of life in peace, in too much peace, in fact. They occasionally slip into lamenting their loneliness which the poem calls ‘solitude of the silver age'. The outside veneer of the poem has a humorous touch, but the sadness comes out despite the brave front put up by the old man.
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Musings | 05.09.08 |

Saturday, September 1, 2018
Topic(s) of this poem: lonely
COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Edward Kofi Louis 23 November 2019

Food and wine, Moon's silvery boon! ! ! Growing up, Old age, Sage and page. Thanks for sharing this poem with us.

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Aniruddha Pathak 24 November 2019

Thanks for visiting this old poem of 2008 dear EKL

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The Muse 01 September 2018

Very descriptive poem. Well done again Aniruddha.

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Aniruddha Pathak 24 November 2019

My apologies to poet, The Muse, for not acknowledging your beautiful comments nearly two years old. Thank you very much, belated though.

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Aniruddha Pathak

Aniruddha Pathak

Godhra - Gujarat
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