Photos of +anu x no. 2 The Art of Martiros Saryan :Winter

When the winter spreads
the chill and snow
and the house is buried half below
the land lies shivering hard,
thinking of the seeds that lie
hibernating till the ice recedes,
reminding man :
"We are like grain; we never die."

anu x's photos

Sushama Karnik

4:16 PM

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The woman meditates ,
contemplates a world when men ruled
and women obeyed
in a silent acquiescence
.when the fields of wheat
and the fields of war,
were both under man's command.
Her quiet eye scans
and the silence on her lips
broods over what the present holds

Image courtesy : anu x

Healing

Healing

For every one of us there is a vulnerable heart
hiding behind the steel we wear.
Words hold the secret lethal power to kill it
with potions ,with venom dissolved.
They come in like a dart, or like a bolt.
Sometimes with an omen and sometimes a foreboding.
But they know, the dark intent can kill;
has a power to strike at the root of life.

Healing has no language.
It's an ache that stands bewildered at the wreck,
only a fervent prayer with belief gone,
faith shattered,
with a hole in the heart where desire lodged with love,
the angel of healing comes disarmed.

Perhaps that's the reason why we make the angels divine,
just a little stronger than the human, but still fragile,
too sore at heart to trust their strength,
their own wings broken in sympathy,
it's truly a miracle that angels can heal!

Paying Homage

Paying Homage
In the grey of the asphalt and concrete bricks
the sunlight plays and tricks the eye.
The bleakness of the fallen debris
when exposed to the heat and the wrath
of the callous sunlight,
mocking the destruction by the human hand
of the life not relevant to the march of time
relentless stands the memory
of that which passed away.
A man standing in the debris
holding a red bouquet in his hand
is a meek homage
and a challenge stubborn
to all the mockery of insignificant life.

tanya dimitrova originally shared:

K Michalis

Nov 1, 2015

**** originally shared:

" A live human body and a deceased human body have the same number of particles. Structurally there's no difference. " J. Osterman / Dr. Manhattan : Watchmen ).

Now and in the time to be, try to be kind to your parents. If this sounds too close to “Honor thy mother and father” for your comfort, so be it. All I am trying to say is try not to rebel against them, for, in all likelihood, they will die before you do, so you can spare yourselves at least this source of guilt if not of grief. If you must rebel, rebel against those who are not so easily hurt. Parents are too close a target (so, by the way, are sisters, brothers, wives or husbands); the range is such that you can’t miss.

The world you are about to enter and exist in doesn’t have a good reputation. It’s been better geographically than historically; it’s still far more attractive visually than socially. It’s not a nice place, as you are soon to find out, and I rather doubt that it will get much nicer by the time you leave it. Still, it’s the only world available; no alternative exists, and if one did, there is no guarantee that it would be much better than this one. It is a jungle out there, as well as a desert, a slippery slope, a swamp, etc. — literally — but, what’s worse, metaphorically, too. Yet, as Robert Frost has said, “The best way out is always through.” He also said, in a different poem, though, that “to be social is to be forgiving.”

you were born, which is in itself half the battle, and you live in a democracy — this halfway house between nightmare and utopia — which throws fewer obstacles in the way of an individual than its alternatives.

Of all the parts of your body, be most vigilant over your index finger, for it is blame-thirsty. A pointed finger is a victim’s logo — the opposite of the V-sign and a synonym for surrender. No matter how abominable your condition may be, try not to blame anything or anybody: history, the state, superiors, race, parents, the phase of the moon, childhood, toilet training, etc. The menu is vast and tedious, and this vastness and tedium alone should be offensive enough to set one’s intelligence against choosing from it.

Try not to set too much store by politicians — not so much because they are dumb or dishonest, which is more often than not the case, but because of the size of their job, which is too big even for the best among them, by this or that political party, doctrine, system or a blueprint thereof. All they or those can do, at best, is to diminish a social evil, not eradicate it. No matter how substantial an improvement may be, ethically speaking it will always be negligible, because there will always be those — say, just one person — who won’t profit from this improvement. The world is not perfect; the Golden Age never was or will be. The only thing that’s going to happen to the world is that it will get bigger, i.e., more populated while not growing in size. No matter how fairly the man you’ve elected will promise to cut the pie, it won’t grow in size; as a matter of fact, the portions are bound to get smaller. In light of that, or, rather, in dark of that — you ought to rely on your own home cooking, that is, on managing the world yourselves — at least that part of it that lies within your reach, within your radius.
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TIme & Watchmen (link):

https://plus.google.com/112739505323676468110/posts/HUuhnQoxop2
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Music: Prophecies  / P. Glass
http://youtu.be/jAdmYO_VKOU

NEAR THIS WINDOW

Near this window, mysterious,
the sun is always mild,
be it the summer, be it autumn
or the sunlit break in the midst of rains.
The wind here, near the window, always a friend
bringing mists of fragrance, aroma of rains.
The silent window that sees all, that speaks to all.
Between writing and looking up at the sky
is the thought of you
dwelling in your spirit world,
asking me in your mystical remote sensing of my world,
why is there no alert from my side.
Why do you wonder? You should always know, my window is open to the sky and you

Sushama Karnik

 The Image credit : Courtesy Sonali Dalal
Sonali Dalal originally shared to Random Strokes:

Will it rain ? 

Kunu Lama April 2015

Shared privately  -  Apr 3, 2015

 

Kunu Lama: Knowledge in the palm of the Hand

Kunu Lama Tenzin Gyaltsen was an accomplished master., who came originally from the Himalayan region of the northern India. When he was young he met a Lama in Sikkim, whoadvised him to go to Tibet to pursue his studies in Buddhism. so he went to Kham in eastern Tibet, where he received teachings from some of the great Lamas. His knowledge of Sanskrit earned him respect and opened many doors fo him. During his time in Tibet Kunu lama became exceptionally learned and realized.
Eventually he did return to India, where he lived as a true ascetic. When my master and I came to India on pilgrimage after leaving Tibet, we searched for him everywhere in Benares. Finally we found him staying in a Hindu temple. No one knew who he was, or even that he was a Buddhist, let alone that he was a master. They knew him as a gentle, saintly yogin, and they offered him food.
When the Tibetan monks and Lamas came into exile, Kunu Lama was chosen to teach them grammar and Sanskrit at a school founded by the dalai lama. He was considered an excellent language teacher. But one day someone asked him a question on the teaching of Buddha. The answer he gave was extremely profound. So they went on asking him questions, and they found that whatever they asked, he knew the answer. He could in fact give any teaching that he was asked for. His reputation grew and His Holiness the Dalai Lama took him as his spiritual guide.One day a master went to him to ask about bardos. As Kunu Lama described the bardos it was so vivid and precise that it was as if he was giving directions to go to Kensington High Street, or Central Park. He was pointing out the bardos directly from his own experience. A practitioner of his caliber has journeyed there through all the different dimensions of reality.
These teachings come from the wisdom mind of the Buddhas, who can see life and death like looking in the palm of their hand. 

Suma Ro

5:15 PM

 

+Sushama Karnik How about this one?

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An Abstruse Symbol, A Watery Grave Posted on 13 nov 2015

AN ABSTRUSE SYMBOL

 

And I wish this was a dream
a cherished dream come true.
And as I think this thought I also knew
the real is never the conceptual.
The dream , a world without a practical consequence,
a word, a thought under erasure.

Does it hurt to think and dream,
a world where nothing is a sin,
where nothing begs for forgiveness,
where I create myself and immediately dissolve
before time, the hunter tracks me down
and nails me, puts me down
under a selective square of a parody of what I made of me.
an abstruse symbol, a watery grave
where everything flows , nothing is held.
And in the very moment of saying this
I know, how I yearn to create a body,
a body that I could call You,
a body, a You that will give me a name, a name that will never be erased

The Sky Reddens So

The sky reddens so , it saddens
me in my grappling
with the barricades of language,
the things I cordon off.
It ought not to redden so, sadden so;
this sky that spreads
its immensity
over mind that grapples with the limited thing
called understanding.
In a moment it cascades so
as to collide and merge
with the things never known before,
and over ages it cannot see
the things that happen under the nose,
The sky, the reddening sky, you must not sadden me.

**** originally shared: by Sushama Karnik

 

Voigt-Kampff Metaphors

Object Self-Assessment (excerpts without Likert scale):
1.  I believe in the possibility of original ideas.
2.  Originality is probably significant.
3.  I agree with the following statement:
"For every man alone thinks he hath got to be a Phoenix" (J. Donne)

"Thing," orthographically and pronouncedly, is one of the ugly words in contemporary American usage.  Yet it is also, inferentially and historically, one of the most subtle and beautiful of our words.  It is lamentable that we do not speak the way Chaucer spoke.  From the year 1400 and a work of Lydgate, Troy-Book , the text reads: "That thei with Paris to Greece schulde wende, To Brynge this thynge to an ende."  The Trojan war was a thing?  Of course it was a thing, for "thing" means concern, assembly and, above all, an affair.  Thing is a woman's menses and a dispute in the town.  Thing is a male sex organ and a form of prayer. (The continuity is not intended, although desirable.)  Thing is what is to be done or its doing.  I can't give you any thing but love, baby.  That is the only thing I have plenty of, baby. When you come, bring your things.  I forgot to bring my things.  My things are packed away.  Everything will be all right.  And by  the way, I hope that things will be better.

Music: Don't Try to Fool Me / Miss Li
https://youtu.be/I9U2E96QvBc

What and who are these things to which we cling?  An old parimutuel ticket; a stub for game seven of the World Series; a class ring; a mug: a dead Havana cigar, loved but unsmoked; my snuff box, my jewelry drawer; an album; a diary; a yearbook -- all tumbled into the box of memories, but transcendent and assertive of me and mine.  Do not throw out his things - they will be missed.  Put her things in the attic, for someday she will want them as a form of reconnoitering her experienced past.  Do you remember those things?  I know that we had them.  Where are they?  They are in my consciousness. Can we find them?  We didn't throw them out, did we?  How could we?  The making, placing, and fondling of our things is equivalent to making, placing, and fondling of our world.  We are our things.  They are personal intrusions into the vast, impersonal reach of space.  They are functional clots in the flow of time.  They are living memories of experiences had but still viable.  They are memorials to experiences undergone and symbolically still  ...
( The Drama of Possibility : Experience as Philosophy of Culture / J. McDermot, D. Anderson)

Image: Sunset / "J. M. W." Turner

Posted on 15 N0v 2015

IN HERE AND OUT THERE

IN HERE AND OUT THERE

Throw the window open
pull the curtain down.
Make it your own winter in an intrepid summer.
Out there, all things red, all things black,
nothing to choose in between,
except a guache patch of white
that is neutral, says nothing.
The neural pathways that carry the heat
of insane violence on all the streets,
are scarcely visible here.
An uncanny silence lives here;
you may call it a paradise if you will.
Stay as long as you please,
or as long as the weather permits.
Out there, the things will grow either too cold or too heated there,
but I have nothing to offer you in here
except a sojourn for the night, a mattress to sleep
and an old damp quilt.
The light still shines,
but it's a candle light,
barely able to last through the night.
But as you will get up to live when it's the light of the sun out there,
this candle, this quilt will have warmed you enough
to brave your path in the storm.

Sushama Karnik

Nov 15, 2015

 Oh, it didn't get deleted and you could read. I was afraid I may have to tax my memory to retrieve it.

Inside Plato's Cave

INSIDE PLATO"S CAVE
When a blizzard knocks
what do you do except lie low
and let the night of darkness pass?
Whom you haunt
and the fears you flee,
a visage gaunt
of your own self caught in the wind.
Say, "I am neither this nor that which you see",
But nothing will disperse the wind.
Lie low; let it pass; one day a wizard will show,
The images of you that float in the wind,
may they dissolve in the wind;
may the voices die,
the waves in the ocean,
ripples in stream,
streak of sunlight
meeting in the light
of the rush of the night
a fading twilight
receding in dream,
and the moment will come
when there will be calm and peace.

The Focal Point

THE FOCAL POINT
I met a sage,
walking on splinters hard
shards
of broken glass
broken at the hands of men,
angry , bitter at heart.
He was leaving behind
a trail of marks
in the sand that absorbed them all,
leaving no imprint behind.
When I met him
I was in a dream;
or was I awake and he was in a dream?
"This is the way a sage is given to walk",
he said, "The ones like us have to explain to God
the ways of the world;
and in turn, as we tread our path,
we explain the ways of God to men.
Between their anger and incomprehension
we exhaust our journey and die.
But die we cannot, unless we pass on this mantle,
this stained robe of light
to another being whom as yet we know not in this world."

"Where would the being be living?" I asked.
" That's not a big secret" he said,
"He or she could be somewhere, or everywhere on this earth;
every living being is a focal point of all that happens in the world.
But the light starts at different moments in different spots, not all at once,
but randomly, like a hillside waking up with glimmering lights in the night."

And that is the secret of this world and a biggest challenge too
for the saint to pass on his light

A Soulmate

 A SOULMATE

As she returned to our familiar bench
I watched her to guess
the places she had been to
in her long absence.
The dampness lingered perhaps in her eyes
and in her lungs as she breathed.
I knew her strength and resilience
the one who tended to other's needs.
As I neared to bask in her love
I felt a window open in her eyes and saw
what she saw.:
A damp window opening
of a loft,
locked long time back.
Opening into a morning
it brought
a fresh, crisp morning wind
and a sunshine she missed.
I basked in her love, new and aglow
drifting with her into the flow.

A Light That Streams

 A LIGHT THAT STREAMS
Madly sane,
passionately calm,
once upon a time
I have been there,
now no more. Birds call
as they build
their fragile nests;
I listen and watch,
neither mad nor sane,
anxious, perturbed by solicitude
for the one perched on the branch,
reaching out, holding forth
a branch and a twig or two.

Once upon a time
the passion preceded calm
like a lightening before it streamed across a sky;
now, a cool look spreads a calm,
a light that streams
from the moon to a lake,
unaware of the moon in the sky.
It's for the moon to send the light
and let it fall where it falls;
it's for the lakes and the valleys,
for the mountain tops,
for the little casements of little homes
to take it and weave the calm
into their hearts and dreams.

Image Courtesy : Fabien Todescato

Light Dazzles

Light Dazzles

The flame that turns to a violet blue
if it dawns you in
my job is done;
it will be my time from this sphere to fly
Light dazzles;it blinds;
I temper it with a mist
and hide the flame.
The flame I hide behind the glass
and it's the lantern that you see in my hand.

Not easy to carry the flame of the mystic lamp,
A flame is a flame and scorches those who carry,
The reason why the sage longs to reach the bank of a lake
and throw the baton in the waters of the rippling lake.