Introduction to the poem: In the midst of chaos and conflict, where the cries of war echo through the streets of Israel and Rafah, a city in the Gaza Strip, we find ourselves searching for a glimmer of hope. Amidst the rubble of shattered dreams and the tears of the innocent, a gentle voice whispers a poignant truth. ‘The Bench’ is a poem that delves into the human heart, exposing the scars of our collective past, and beckoning us to confront the harsh realities of our present. Through the intimate conversation of a man with his childhood self, we are reminded that even in the darkest moments, the power of hope, love, and reconciliation can transform the desolate landscape of our world. Let us listen to the whispers of our own hearts, and may this poem be a catalyst for the change we so desperately need.
Sitting on the bench,
Basking in the Sun;
Masking the hoarfrost’s wench,
A nine year old son.
Three feet away,
Sat a man with a wisdom of more than sixty years,
His eyes numbed with fears;
Heart filled with tears.
Heard a voice enveloped with euphoria,
“Ambling three piles, whence the East Street – Post Office,
Will I see a grin ear to ear and a crimping giggle,
When I carry this jar of butternut pickle.”
The old man sucking his topical sorrow,
“The war cry, the war cry,
Holy war, will it please your God, above and high?
Numerous will die. Ah! This winter is too dry.”
The nine year old chirped away,
“The snow makes me happy every day,
The pink sheet of flowers look propitious,
Just like this pickle, which is delicious!”
“Aren’t they specious?
The colour will swiftly fade,
The frost will soon invade.”
The hour soon collapsed,
The colour quickly faded,
When a tap of call invaded,
“George, this is not a safe place,
We need to leave at an augmented pace,
The last jitney has arrived,
We two mortals are the only ones here, this can’t be denied.”
The middle-aged man stood up; contrived,
Leaving the bench and his memories behind.
All he knew, his age and beyond has to be survived,
The condition couldn’t be described.
In a trice, he heard a voice from a disguised,
“The pink sheet of flowers,
The snow and the towers,
The butternut pickle and the smiling hours,
They did not disown,
They did not dethrone,
But you did bemoan.
Let this jar still be hold,
As, you have miles to unfold,
Precepts and principles are yet to be told.
Religion is not the justification,
For such diabolical division.
Reimburse the lost colours,
In springs and seasons, when the butterfly flutters!”
The jitney passed.
Everyone knew, there was only the man who was left and unrolled;
Only he knew, there was a man and a nine year old.
-Shreya Modi
About the Poet-
Shreya Modi, an Indian poet and psychologist, authored the bestselling poetry collection “The (Un)fettered Mind” at 18. Her work has garnered critical acclaim and deeply resonated with readers. Featured twice in “The Interview Times” and covered by national dailies like Dainik Bharat, The Daily Hunt, and the Hindustan Times, Shreya’s literary contributions are well-recognized. Additionally, her research in psychology, including notable papers on Indian serial killers and recidivism, has captivated over 3.5 lakh readers. She was nominated as Poet of the Year for “The (Un)fettered Mind” at the Literary Awards 2022 by Ukiyoto Publishing.
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