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LOGIES – what is forgotten, what has been given up
The elderly folks still talk about life in the logies.
Bitter-sweet memories of a time when they knew
no wooden floors or carpets but the scent of the damp Earth.
When there was no faucet to open or close,
but the lone standpipe for the neighborhood,
and a brotherhood and sisterhood we now little know.
When people washed their clothes in the trenches,
and there was no Colgate and toothbrush but black sage,
and no fashion or style but simple cottonwear and a smile.
When every child looked at every man and woman
as another father or mother to lean on,
and an injury to one was an injury to all.
When neighbors were more than neighbors,
as if they carried the same blood.
No feverish haste to build a better fence or gate—
there’re no fences or gates, but a shared ground and a deep bond.
With bongo and tassa drums and festive music and dance,
they forged a forgetfulness of the oppressor’s heart and hands.
It was enough for them to know the Earth and the sun-drenched grass,
but they dreamt of their children plucking the stars.
We wonder if we will see again such communal bond,
as if it came from a long-lost age and land.
There was much love in their bamboo-thatched logies—
our glittering mansions could never dream to hold.
Yours sincerely,
Haimnauth Cecil Ramkirath
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