An ongoing affair: A poem by Gomathi Mohan



I pick the book, put on lamp settling down in a cosy posture, 

 Coffee perching precariously, glance at title and its author. 

 Drizzling rain cadencing on my window, as I feel the book with eyes and fingers, 

 Proceed on inside even as on the cover, my sight still lingers.  

 With pulsating excitement flooding my heart gently flick  pages, 

 Catch glimpses of random paras ornated with words and phrases. 

 Hold both ends of book with eyes hovering, open it to a page,

 Press my nose softly against it to let the olfactory nerve gauge. 

 Inhale deeply till each sense perceives its biblichor, 

 Sniffing being an integral part of the entire affair's core. 

 Close it, hold close, read the blurb then title over and over again, 

 Until I have memorised it like a stranger met on a night train. 

 Flip to the first page, let eyes get used to its style and font, 

 I am not going to read it the same way again even if I want. 

 Just like two lovers holding their glances for the first time,

 Or like moving to a new place, a newer plain and clime. 

 Commence to read the book, taking in each and every word,

 Like raindrop lapped up eagerly by the thirsty Chataka bird. 

 Ensue with scribbles & paraphernalia to make it more personal, 

 Notes, underlines, teardrops, food imprints, insignias irrevocable. 

 Sleep with it pressing against  cheek, let it shadow me everywhere like a pet, 

 Caress it and hold it to bosom, don't want to let go of it yet.

 No matter its genre, a classic, a paperback or a rustic folklore, 

 Voila! I just had a clandestine rendezvous with My Love and a lot more.


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