The Sacred Whale

All through the night,
through the purple and the dark
we were fishing for the sacred whale.
All through the night our boats swayed
on the waves of our black intent,
the intent to kill.
All through the night we heard
the barely audible sound
of the white whale turning blue
and we missed the trail of his song,
straining our ears to hear the song
of the whale singing in the depth of the sea.
Misled by the rage of the hunger
of the dark delight for an overkill
we continued to press our boats
in the storm and did not stop.
The light of the dawn now shines.
It's already late
to look for the lost hours of sleep.

The quivering of something in the sky
has given a new awareness to the song
that we could barely hear in the night.
Our frantic search for the whale
made us deaf to the alien song,
deep and blue
in the midst of our frantic, purple search in the dark.

We are falling asleep in the morn,
straining our ears to hear the song
of the whale singing in the depth of the sea.

SUSHAMA KARNIK (c)

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The Death of the Monarch

The Death of the Monarch

The monarch butterflies, monarchs of nature's divinity,
and pitted against them
the monstrosity
of the powers that be
the essential cruelty
of the seduction of power.
An unequal battle between malevolence
and the fragile innocence
of all that has been wiped out
and will be wiped out
unless the rest of the mankind is geared
to stop the tide
of greed and blind
rage that threatens to kill
the seeds of the wholesome nourishment of life
all around in the present time and in the faraway future
which is really not so far away.

Seducing the farmer to buy the magic seed
for a greater yield
leading to greater money and money leading to greater greed.
No witchcraft could be as black
as the magic of science in the hands
of mean plutocrats and oligarchs of power.
Killing the seed and planting a monster
is the supreme way of manipulating all
into a devious plot of conquering the earth

In the fading light by the window

I sit with a needle and a spool of thread

and with the memory of mom who taught me to sew with the basic stitch.

I sit by the window witnessing the end of the day

and the frayed fabric in my hand

I hem in the jagged ends into a running road with a smooth edge.

It takes time and patience to thread in the way

and keep the needle ready and in place.

The roughly sewn stitches, add to the life

of the fabric and the dress and with each new stitch I learn

how to save lives from falling apart.

I have a whole big pile of rags

in need of a stitch that heals

I learned the art too late;

that's my only regret.

LILACS AND ORCHIDS

Heretic, rebel, innocent, and proud,
when the lilacs and orchids bloom in the sun
the sky remains invisible, transparent as a see-through glass
for the lilacs and orchids to yearn to see
 their own visage, their own image, in the highest mirror,
not knowing that the mirror of the sky
is a heart that does not reflect back what it sees and understands.
The heart is not a mirror.

The Muse

Stifling the cool morning with the breath of summer

she appears in the sky,

A desire frozen into a bright icicle,

not having found a place on earth,

she rested in the shifting shapes of the clouds,

hiding between her veiled thighs

the lamp of fire that burns without a smoke :

the muse ascended to unseen heights!

Did I fall in love with a dream?

Sushama Karnik (c)
From the archives

Thank you for the image:@Milan Lakic

Milan LakićTimeline

14 days ago

 Photo album: црно - беле

Photographer: Nick Fancher

Lost Treasures

Apr 28, 2015

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At last the house, my home,
abandoned, looking lost in the overgrowth of shrubs,
waited for me in the dusk.
The door, unattended over time,
rusted on hinges and creaked...
in a surprise to say, "You have come!"
The spacious interior of my old home
now had a roomy redundancy,
and the table was laid for me in all abundance.
proclaiming in the austerity of its decor
that happiness is such a simple thing.

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  Sushama Karnik

  I know it. It's in my collection, an all time favorite.
  +Fabien Todescato 

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