Thursday 31 December 2015
The Language of Myths: The Morning : A Crystal Held In Hand
The Language of Myths: The Morning : A Crystal Held In Hand: THE MORNING : A CRYSTAL HELD IN HAND A blessing in the morning shone; and the reason? Not known. I saw her dreaming the scent of m...
What's In A Myth?
What's In A Myth?
The morning brought dew-drops
and several suns
multiplied
and dropped their images in every petal ,
clinging lightly at the end
and the petals held them the longest they could;
after all they were meant to be suspended between the night and the dawn, ready to drop any moment when the leaf and the petal stood heavy with the weight of love they could bear no longer.
Eyes, there are eyes everywhere if you would care to see.
Eyes in the dew, in the grass blades that shine
in the petals and the leaves.
They are all your eyes,
looking at me wherever I go,
to the sea or sky or the river,
to the mountains, the plains and the fields of grass.
Their shadows spread like the shadows in the woods;
their nuances deepen like the voices in a dream.
It's not love ordinary;
it's an invitation to partake
in the synergy of the flow;
a hint to follow till the horizon's end' till the sky's space that never ends;
reminding : life begins always at the edge of everything that seems to have come to an end.
The morning brought dew-drops
and several suns
multiplied
and dropped their images in every petal ,
clinging lightly at the end
and the petals held them the longest they could;
after all they were meant to be suspended between the night and the dawn, ready to drop any moment when the leaf and the petal stood heavy with the weight of love they could bear no longer.
Eyes, there are eyes everywhere if you would care to see.
Eyes in the dew, in the grass blades that shine
in the petals and the leaves.
They are all your eyes,
looking at me wherever I go,
to the sea or sky or the river,
to the mountains, the plains and the fields of grass.
Their shadows spread like the shadows in the woods;
their nuances deepen like the voices in a dream.
It's not love ordinary;
it's an invitation to partake
in the synergy of the flow;
a hint to follow till the horizon's end' till the sky's space that never ends;
reminding : life begins always at the edge of everything that seems to have come to an end.
The Morning : A Crystal Held In Hand
THE MORNING : A CRYSTAL HELD IN HAND
A blessing in the morning shone;
and the reason?
Not known.
I saw her dreaming the scent of mango groves
and beneath each tree i saw
the marks just left
of her footsteps
catching the light of dawn in a surprise!
A surprise, all surprise,
and I rushed to open the window to see why,
the robin said, "I know; but I don't know how and why!"
The notes of the prayer from the mosque
and the temple bells from the east and the west
mingled, the soul was rested in a dream
and the morning was a crystal held in the hand
of a child looking in wonder
at all those things which surprise.
Looking at beauty and sensing it
is a wonder, not surprise.
The child touched my jaded being
and I closed my eyes to hold the dream.
Sushama Karnik
Image Courtesy : Sonali Dalal
and the reason?
Not known.
I saw her dreaming the scent of mango groves
and beneath each tree i saw
the marks just left
of her footsteps
catching the light of dawn in a surprise!
A surprise, all surprise,
and I rushed to open the window to see why,
the robin said, "I know; but I don't know how and why!"
The notes of the prayer from the mosque
and the temple bells from the east and the west
mingled, the soul was rested in a dream
and the morning was a crystal held in the hand
of a child looking in wonder
at all those things which surprise.
Looking at beauty and sensing it
is a wonder, not surprise.
The child touched my jaded being
and I closed my eyes to hold the dream.
Sushama Karnik
Image Courtesy : Sonali Dalal
Just dreaming
Saturday 26 December 2015
Written In A Sleep
Written In A Sleep
I always see and am tempted to steal
that giant needle on your tools-board.
Such a big nose that can hold hundreds of strands of silk
flowing from the moon and brought by her beams
straight to land on earth.
Rainbow colors shine and refract in a spectrum
all the possible hues
of love and hostility
from the cold invisibility
to the red hot intensity.
What will the stitches when tightly held
look like on the fabric of the patched up quilt?
Somnambulantly bright
and streaking lines of moonlit paths
under the bridge which we might one day walk
Kevin Walsh's photos
I always see and am tempted to steal
that giant needle on your tools-board.
Such a big nose that can hold hundreds of strands of silk
flowing from the moon and brought by her beams
straight to land on earth.
Rainbow colors shine and refract in a spectrum
all the possible hues
of love and hostility
from the cold invisibility
to the red hot intensity.
What will the stitches when tightly held
look like on the fabric of the patched up quilt?
Somnambulantly bright
and streaking lines of moonlit paths
under the bridge which we might one day walk
Thursday 24 December 2015
Tonight is no urge
Blessedly Sad
Tonight, is no urge left towards flight,
a time to sink low,
lower than the lowest depth,
and wallow in the voluptuous flow,
lying in peace, or be buried in the waters all around.
It was a wonderland, the magical reality
so long as I was there,
elephants ambling across watery streets,
deluge where sadness sank and sang
dirges about the dead and the gone
cats and puppies and human beings,
as the trees grew stronger in their roots and the branches taller in majesty.
And sadness, tears were no embarrassment,
such ease of acceptance,
truly a magical reality!
No sermons , no spiritual harangue thrown
about the need to renounce the human bondage of love
in the name of some imagined glory of walking away on the world of tears and love,
the despair and frustration coming in the wake
of all the love that came to me.
I am so glad and sad, blessedly sad,
sad, sad to my very bones,
and yet so glad that I found my soul
a time to sink low,
lower than the lowest depth,
and wallow in the voluptuous flow,
lying in peace, or be buried in the waters all around.
It was a wonderland, the magical reality
so long as I was there,
elephants ambling across watery streets,
deluge where sadness sank and sang
dirges about the dead and the gone
cats and puppies and human beings,
as the trees grew stronger in their roots and the branches taller in majesty.
And sadness, tears were no embarrassment,
such ease of acceptance,
truly a magical reality!
No sermons , no spiritual harangue thrown
about the need to renounce the human bondage of love
in the name of some imagined glory of walking away on the world of tears and love,
the despair and frustration coming in the wake
of all the love that came to me.
I am so glad and sad, blessedly sad,
sad, sad to my very bones,
and yet so glad that I found my soul
Humour Random 2
THE FACE OF GOD
What I have is far more profound.’
‘What’s that?’
‘A sense of humor.’
Jaz looked at him, trying to find a clue in his gaunt face, in the clear gray eyes watching him with such - what? Amusement? Condescension? There was something about the man which brought on a sort of hermeneutic despair. He was a forest of signs.
‘We’re hunting for jokes.’ Bachman spoke slowly, as if to a child. ‘Parapraxes. Cosmic slips of the tongue. They’re the key to the locked door. They’ll help us discover it.’
‘Discover what?’
‘The face of God. What else would we be looking for?”
Tuesday 22 December 2015
In the Quietude
The Quietude after the First rays of the Sun on the Snow
Swaying between the white rage of snow
and the scorching brilliance of the red hot glow
of the sun gazing in torment below
at the rooftops and streams
languishing for the warmth that will melt
the long white shadow
of the delayed winter song,
your mind attains slowly
a poise and beauty.
You, the queen of the snowy peaks
of mountains soaring in the sky,
how supreme is your luster and shine! I can only gaze and guess at the range of your flight and depth,
and marvel and return,
back to my base camp
and go back to sleep and dream
in the languor of the songs you sing.
Swaying between the white rage of snow
and the scorching brilliance of the red hot glow
of the sun gazing in torment below
at the rooftops and streams
languishing for the warmth that will melt
the long white shadow
of the delayed winter song,
your mind attains slowly
a poise and beauty.
You, the queen of the snowy peaks
of mountains soaring in the sky,
how supreme is your luster and shine! I can only gaze and guess at the range of your flight and depth,
and marvel and return,
back to my base camp
and go back to sleep and dream
in the languor of the songs you sing.
Friday 11 December 2015
THE MIST SPEAKS
The Mist Speaks
Fogs and mists of rainy days,
strangely inspire a faith,
The depression melts and merges with the fog still far away
from where I stand on the distant point of the hill,
heightens the mystery, deepens the wonder.
Here the rains hiss and toss
the fragile curtains and rush in the drops;
the leaves of the pages flutter.
I have no need to read,
nor is there an urge to write.
The general silence all around,
and the strange sounds I couldn't have heard
come alive,
pervade the air
in swelling and ebbing cadences.
the mighty wind forces the window open;
I have no need to shut it again.
the hills of the farthest region come in view,
the whole hill otherwise hidden in a cloud
shimmers through the fog and stands aloft in a majestic height.
Deep sounds of a ritual drum
become deeper still in the layers of the cloud,
clashing cymbals and the sonorous chorus
of priests reciting prayers in the sanctuaries
draw closer and closer in the foggy wind.
muffled and deep yet as they catch
the resistance of the disbelief.
The forces of dissolution,
of transformation,
I yield to them in awe.
And strangely, I do not fear.
Protection, seclusion and security,
pervades and surrounds.
By no apparent logic I understand
the world of sounds not heeded before.
Fogs and mists of rainy days,
strangely inspire a faith,
The depression melts and merges with the fog still far away
from where I stand on the distant point of the hill,
heightens the mystery, deepens the wonder.
Here the rains hiss and toss
the fragile curtains and rush in the drops;
the leaves of the pages flutter.
I have no need to read,
nor is there an urge to write.
The general silence all around,
and the strange sounds I couldn't have heard
come alive,
pervade the air
in swelling and ebbing cadences.
the mighty wind forces the window open;
I have no need to shut it again.
the hills of the farthest region come in view,
the whole hill otherwise hidden in a cloud
shimmers through the fog and stands aloft in a majestic height.
Deep sounds of a ritual drum
become deeper still in the layers of the cloud,
clashing cymbals and the sonorous chorus
of priests reciting prayers in the sanctuaries
draw closer and closer in the foggy wind.
muffled and deep yet as they catch
the resistance of the disbelief.
The forces of dissolution,
of transformation,
I yield to them in awe.
And strangely, I do not fear.
Protection, seclusion and security,
pervades and surrounds.
By no apparent logic I understand
the world of sounds not heeded before.
Thursday 3 December 2015
THE CHILD OF THE MORN
The Child Of The Morn
A knock at the door;
an early morn;
little marks
of little feet,
mud splashed on the window sill;
surely some child was here for a while.
I know how to call her back!
I will write the name in the mud-bath ,
on the sun-soaked window-pane.
The child will stare
with the faraway look
that seems not to heed
the hand that wrote.
But be certain that the name will ring a bell
The child has a name the child knows not.
But the fairy of the twilight will whisper it for me,
and tomorrow I shall hide here
behind the window, behind the raw leaves of the palmy day
and watch the secret language of the child
unfold at the heart the core of delight
A knock at the door;
an early morn;
little marks
of little feet,
mud splashed on the window sill;
surely some child was here for a while.
I know how to call her back!
I will write the name in the mud-bath ,
on the sun-soaked window-pane.
The child will stare
with the faraway look
that seems not to heed
the hand that wrote.
But be certain that the name will ring a bell
The child has a name the child knows not.
But the fairy of the twilight will whisper it for me,
and tomorrow I shall hide here
behind the window, behind the raw leaves of the palmy day
and watch the secret language of the child
unfold at the heart the core of delight
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