Self Portrait

Self Portrait

1

Looking into the mirror,

I sense a certain elemental asymmetry.

The spectacles weigh down on the left

and a centipede-eyebrow

peeps over the rim on one side

but not the other.

The left nostril is smaller

than the right nostril,

and the stubbled cheek will not do

for the local passport photographer.

(“Have a shave sir”, he said deprecatively

before leading me to his studio

and offered free of charge-

a razor and some cream.)

The hair slightly parted

along a scalp-line on one side

is a style that has been recently dropped

from the menu card of the local barber.

2

The occasional visitor

would train his critical eye on me

like an artist would

on his canvas

and declare,

“He looks very much like his father”.

And I, in terror

would grab my father’s shaving mirror

to see if his ugly pock marks

had begun to sprout on my cheeks.

Years later, seeing us both in profile,

riding a scooter, a neighbour remarked,

“He looks so much like his father”.

I merely smiled, and was glad

when my wife did not share this view.

Time has erased his pock marks

and his crooked teeth have given way

to young denture.

The hair on my temples are greying.

With years,

only our resemblances have grown.

Our quarrels have grown more bitter.

(Remark: The last line may make for a good poem, but does not reflect the truth. In fact, but for a brief period, my father and I shared a deep empathy. I still recall his memory every day and remember him with pleasure and happiness.)