The history of my ancestors clings stubbornly to my DNA. I feel a sense of belonging to the tribe of tattered spirits roaming in the garden of my past; their lives are embedded in me and shed light on my capabilities. Like an eager apprentice who hungers for more knowledge of the stories of days gone by, I walk with the ghost’s tales until my body is weary. I hope to salvage their frayed and fragile utterances and weave them into my present. Their skills passed down to me propelled me into a bright future. I’m grateful to my predecessors.
Tag: past
Bygone Ages
the new replaces the old
the old goes by the wayside
displaced by each new generation
current ones inherit the previous traditions
that will be modified over time
little by little
shifts occur in the societal aura
reaching forward with progress
changing what’s necessary
discarding what isn’t
every generation asks about its purpose
what is it all for – the eternal question
yet each day, those living
follow the footsteps of those long gone
the answer never comes
Smitha Vishwanath
Grief and Me
I feel grief in waves
Ebbing and flowing, looking
for the tiniest crack.
I construct a dam
Keeps me from the dark deluge.
I clamber away.
Photographs
A time capsule – scroll,
Turn. And you are taken to the past.
Smiling faces gaze
Frozen for posterity
A casket of illusions
Ikigai
Some
people,
altruistic
kind, love to see
you distressed. High on
empathy, it gives them
a chance to play the hero.
Makes them feel good; it distresses
them when you save yourself. It’s hard to
carry on without a sense of purpose.
Writing and Us
You said writing had
swallowed me. Would you, rather,
sorrow engulf me?
Had I cried to you,
you would have found me tiresome
Now I write and smile
And yet you complain
What is it you want from me?
Help me understand.
Grateful for the poetry
I had been comatose. You woke me up.
Only a stab in the heart
could have done it. Thank you!
Poetry oozed from the gash. I rejoiced.
But I cannot forgive you.
The scar – a reminder.
~~~
Smitha Vishwanath’s poetry has been published in several international e-zines. Her debut novel, Coming Home, published in March 2023, has received excellent reviews. She has been selected Author of the Month 2022, 2023, and 2024. Smitha was awarded the Reuel International Prize for poetry in 2023, and her novel was awarded the Certificate of Excellence by the Asian Literary Society in 2024. She was first featured here in 2020.
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A Box Full Of Life
Redux
Opening the lid to the past.
Joy, tears, and laughter escape.
Youthful feelings rushing back expectedly.
Playing in the past like it was yesterday.
Staying there is tempting,
in the good ‘ole days.
But were they really?
Boxed memories are nearly all good.
Who saves the crap?
Those moments slowly come back too.
Time to close the lid.
Back to reality.
Originally posted 10/25/18 on I Write Her.
Dead And Buried
visit to the past
exploring rich history
so much is unknown
Speaking of Dead and Buried **UPDATE** The current submission cycle for The Short of It is now CLOSED! All 52 feature slots have been filled. You all are amazing! :)
First Memory
I was tiny, maybe about two or three years old at most, carrying some plates to set on the table that Oma had given me. Her instructions were stern as usual, and I was scared to take them to the dining room. I walked real slow and carefully so as not to drop them.
It was my aunt’s apartment in Berlin, Germany, when it was still called “West Berlin.” It featured a large open living room and dining room. She and her husband’s veterinary practice was just beyond the double doors beside the dining area.
I remember my dress was a blue crushed velvet, with shiny buttons down the front. My white stockings are tucked into shiny black patent leather shoes with a strap across them. Even the details of the kitchen and all the other rooms are vivid in my mind. When my father was stationed in Berlin, I remember spending much time there when I was younger. It wasn’t always a happy place because my grandmother was strict. My mother and her sister also didn’t get along well; the tension was palpable.
Perhaps there are more memories yet to surface. It may explain why I’ve always felt like life didn’t start well.
Repressed Memories
I searched the night sky for a familiar constellation of stars, hoping I could catch their orbit behind an opening in the clouds. But luck was not with me tonight. Instead, shadows projected their natural art onto the forest, leading to sparks of memories of my sisters and our shared life. The past felt empty, yet my mind continued sprouting up more scenarios. I struggled to breathe with this onslaught of my past. My brow got damp with sweat, and my head was in a swirl of sketch thoughts. It was all so ugly, worse than I remembered other times.
Old-Fashioned
when you live in a world
surrounded by nostalgic things
realize it was once progressive
you’ve come a long way, baby
farther than you’d ever thought
your adventure would go
you’re leaving behind a message
of where you have been
showing how far you’ve gone
The Taste Of Yesteryears
a smell, a sound or a ghost
pins us back in time
a duality in the timeline
one foot in reality
the other in the past
echoes of the familiar
trap us quite robustly
forcing a face-to-face
as harsh realities present
a reckoning of our actions
will we learn
or are we doomed
to repeat the recollections
over and over
in our unsatisfying dreams
Tracks To The Past
Rodrigo Curi – Unsplash 
The Sunday Whirl
Inspired by Sadje’s What do you see #63 & The Sunday Whirl #489
when memories present
in the silence of my room
i check my expectations at the door
my spine gets comfortable
as i delve deep into the bank of the past
the risk of emotions is high
will my cheeks remain dry
i hear the clunk of metal gears
hobos sleeping in rail cars
their lives in a haze
while i play in the train yard
i wonder in my head where they are now
#Whatdoyousee
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