There was a house that didn’t know magic.
Not that there was no magic but the inhabitants,
Nobody wanted any magic to think otherwise
And so there was none.
That imagination at all cost
Couldn’t have enraptured a magic of sorts,
To move mundane and petty goads
Glister goodwill from the heavens,
The magnificent pie impressing the plate.
First of all, there were no lights when it was dark in the house.
Only when they had to see for the benefit of seeing,
They put on the lights for awhile that returned to a
Darker than moonless pitch to startle in comfort.
For what else was there to see
Other than the rise of the electricity
Which must sting and be paid on every month’s due.
Let everywhere be dark and even the orange light,
That resembled the sun was taken away,
By the exhausting work daylight,
Rid tranquility, meditation and romance.
The dog sat through the black nights
Slumped and glum in lollygag
Among toys never so well played.
Second of all, there were no books anywhere.
Not in the living room, not in the study.
All the bedrooms, living and study only had things
“They must use”, “they must know”.
Anything else was “nice to know”,
Foremost “no need to know”.
And perhaps a “luxury of time to know”.
So the nuanced words of the ancients
Sending exotic knowledge messengers to inquests of
Inexorable thoughts troubling the future of mankind
Went unnoticed and slipped by untouched.
The house inhabitants were not privy,
Their minds eroded the magic of erudition.
Third of all, there was no such thing as art to be admired.
No one knew Van Gogh, Monet or Matisse
Of colours, shapes and objects invoking love, hate, fear or courage.
Artists or designers who made the bag or skirt they wore
Or the trickled down cheap wares they busily haggled for.
They said art was not practical,
Seldom an allure as it should the opposite
Wasting time, work, and effort uncooked.
None thought beauty surrounding them was almost always magic,
Unexpectedly done in the deed of the maker’s heart.
Fourth of all, there wasn’t any sound of music,
Not once echoing through the halls or rooms.
No one pumped to a catchy beat,
Banged and jumped to a bass drop
And swayed to the melancholy of sensual keys.
The speakers were left silent and musty
That restful birds had sung so beautifully unheard at the windows.
And if anyone tried to sing or rap or harmonise
They were tone and pitch deaf,
Mouths gone dry they rather not have tried.
No one clapped out loud or cried at the tune,
A tenor or lyrical pitied, magic blew and flew.
Last of all, the house did not have plants.
The evergreen from a pot of shrubs or two
Was nothing like flowers they didn’t strive to keep alive
To cover the concreteness and brutalism cascading the four walls,
Meeting dead ends to the four corners’ floors.
Flat without life, hiding away earth’s natural character
Dog and cat make better companion needs,
Why make with the hassle of climbing vines,
Watering intervals, inaccurate gardening guides.
Magic in a bloom out of cracks, they missed
New growth they hadn’t grew.
- Vander
