Old Houses

 

Old houses remain long after they crumble,

Long after they’re demolished 

By the various claims of property that often 

Dispute and defeat the claims of memory.

In the mind they are young (as it is said

All stay that way after death): So perhaps

The wood of old houses never rot,

Roofs never leak and hinges never creak

In some celestial real estate—where the yard, 

Slightly overgrown in the early dry season,

But newly groomed by Grandmother’s 

Midrib broom, breathes a sigh of relief after a rain;

Where scents of camiaand sampaguitamingle,

And the gravid jackfruit cracks and sheds

The talisman pearl of its redolence

That invades the quivering nostrils of noon.

Thus perhaps are instances of effulgence revealed

To little boys (their chin on the window sill) 

As they watch the rain catch in the hair of green

Worms and moss glistens on tambis limbs. 

Theses ghosts of brightness I carry around 

Crossing pavements of cracked asphalt, or glimpse

Where the smog darkens and men race for a prized 

Bit of permanence in a harried, shifting world.

 

 

Marne Kilates

rev. May 6, 2002, 10 May 2019

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