The Language of Myths

Sunday, 16 February 2025

A Nonsense Poem

A Nonsense Poem Without Rhyme and Reason

A random light,
a purple spray
on trees swaying in the dark.
A spruced up lane
showing the way
to a night that loses the barbs
under a moon,
speechless, dumb.
A random evening
beginning in a random thought,
a random streetlight burning bright
like a tiger' eye in the dark.
A lost letter from the alphabets
like the cat I lost which never came back.
In a random mood,
I speak of things with no consequence.
On some other random night I may come
to the random street
in search of the cat I lost
hoping that if I find the lost alphabet,
I may randomly find the lost cat.

#Spruce 🌲 #Streetlight #Evening #Random #NoFilter #RussianUniverse﻿

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Sunday, 2 February 2025

02-02-25

The first task of a man who wants to be a poet is to study his own self-awareness, in its entirety; he seeks out his soul, he inspects it, he tests it, he learns it. As soon as he knows it, he must cultivate it. [...]

I say that one must be a Seer , make oneself a Visionary.

The Poet makes himself a seer by a long, prodigious, and rational disorganization of all the senses. All the forms of love, of suffering, of madness, he searches himself, he exhausts all the poisons in himself, keeping only their quintessences. Unspeakable torment for which he needs the greatest faith, a superhuman strength, and he becomes, above all others, the great invalid, the great criminal, the great accursed, - and the Supreme Scientist! For he

reaches the unknown ! Because he has cultivated his soul, already rich, more than anyone else! He reaches the unknown, and if demented, he ends up by losing the meaning of his visions, he will at least have seen them!

Sunday, 26 January 2025

A damp drizzle has made the morning cool.

Still ridden by sleep

I feel the wind around.

A damp drizzle and blurry eyes.

The spell of the dreams lingers still, which I hate sometimes intensely,

need to free the space

and make room for a better me;

The better Me, filled with prayers, not with dreams.

Your narrative follows the ephemeral and the elusive; and the perceptions turn light and soft, gentle and airy, pastel to soothe the mind. Nature is generous and bountiful, and the butterfly the epitome of pure innocence.

I have imagined you looking at your garden through your open window, your mind letting your imagination slip away freely.

Beautiful lines, Sushama!

52w
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Sushama Karnik

Françoise Dhulesia This was inspired by a rangoli made by a friend to greet the new year, a beautifully stylised image of flowers and leaves I wish I could share it.