Where Are You My Thrush

By Amit Parmessur

Musing under a morose tamarind tree, I find
my mind melting into an emotional hurly-burly.
The blankness of the tattered sky above allowing
me to measure my beating heart, I
bring the flute to my lips. I pause.
I need this silence to touch my soul.

I’ve never thought the thread of our amity
would snap, without sound.
How dare time steal us from each
other, drowning us in a crowd of waves.

I falter again, and the flute remains mute.
I hope one day you beat the wind
and warp your snug nest round my patient heart.

O my merry Thrush,
without you I walk without feet!
Without you, my boat sails like a sieve.

Musing under this morose tree I often try
imaginary songs, waiting for your hymn.
They say it is most wonderful
but no one has inspired it the way I have.

I go home, like a brave periwinkle on an
endless errand, before the high stars start to pop.
My melody has combed every wooded area,
has fought every frost and used every patois.

This evening, I’ll drench the flute in the pool
of my anger and wait for an improbable return.

Remember soft Thrush, you are scintillating—
our bond isn’t ordinary, like others.


Amit Parmessur has appeared in around 100 literary magazines such as: Ann Arbor Review, Calliope Nerve, Black-Listed Magazine, Red Fez, Damazine, Zouch Magazine and many others. His book on blog Lord Shiva & other poems has been recently published by The Camel Saloon. He is nominated for the 2011 Pushcart Award and lives in Quatre-Bornes, Mauritius.