From Another Shore

From Another Shore

Krishna, my love, I am weary.
I am weary of battling with yelling crowds,
I am weary of those who vie for the secret I hold,
the knowledge of what happens to a soul--
when touched by your silence it loses tongue, loses word,
loses script, loses the knowledge of existence.
Krishna, my love I am weary of the hysteria circling around,
the cymbals clashing and drowning love,
I am weary of the walls I need to build
to hide your treasure and the ancient lore.
Krishna, my love, my silence incarnate,
Tell me how to keep them away,
tell me how to sing
when your enchanting music drifts in from another shore.
Krishna my love, I smell your sword as much as I feel
the gentle feel of your peacock-feather on my skin.
How can I build a temple real
on this shore away, where you cannot reach?
Krishna, the alluring infinity, the tantalizing solitary dweller,
You never gave me enough of the strength
to fight battles of ambitions to claim the crown.
Lend me a voice that will ask
the right question that will open the way to the end of this weary pilgrimage.

When the evening falls will you stand by me and watch
the torches being lit across the shore, the lamps sparkle in the distant shrines?
They, I know, will be lighting a thousand lamps for you
and I will be watching from this shore, isolate, alone,
away from you lodged in those remote shrines?
In that hour of desolate night, will you hold my hand and watch
your own shrine from another shore, alone with the flickering lamp and me?

Sushama Karnik originally shared:

In came with a gust of the wind
all the letters you shredded once.
Maple leaves, strewn on the floor.
A street car honked outside
at an imagined horse standing stunned
in the middle of the road that led nowhere.
The night was long but we talked away
in the wee hours of the darkened room.
Your face was covered with all those letters you shredded once
and I was reading the ones which you never wrote.
In a surreal trance I watched
the demented ceiling fan whirling above;
the mind of someone I knew once
could be seen with an uncanny clarity
performing feats like an acrobat
on the wildly circling fan above.
As soon as the the day begins I will move out
to step into the corporate world
of walls rising to insane heights and wallpapers peeling off.

Thanks +Lise Wal for the surreal inspiration

Originally shared by Lise Wal

Collage class this week was surreal collage

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  Lise Wal

  +Sushama Karnik WOW!! So great! I see a bit of my collage in there too, Thank you 😍
  
  
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Reminiscent Of Lost Hours

The tolling of bells
reminiscent of lost hours.
A rooster seen atop the tree,
recalls the mornings in a lost village.
In a flash of lightning, the rooster sees
the coming of the rain.
A delayed rain
past a refrain,
come rain, fall again.
Something must grow
in the lost hours of the lost village.
The past when it collides with the moments now,
can water the seeds sunken in the ground.

The sound of water over the rock,
the sound of water rising in jets
of fountains singing in the dark,
and I look for the key I lost
as it slipped somewhere along the edge
of the rowing boat as it bounced in the wind and the storm.
The agony of the thunder when there is no rain,
the agony of the torch light falling
on empty spaces,
The agony of the call
where the prisons and palaces are all alike!
The sea is swelling in brisk tides.
They break and spread, forgetful upon the shore.

ONE NIGHT

Aug 27, 2016

One night beneath the streetlight
you confessed your love to me,
and your face was fraught with the dew
of the evanescent delight.
Youth in timorous blue,
and the urge to talk to me,
and as we parted ways
I knew you would spend a sleepless night.
And how I wished the starlight
would stream, stream onto you
instead of the random streetlight of this night
to bathe you gently and put you to sleep
when I would not be there with you
to silence your fears and anxieties.

Image credit : Milan Lakić 

photographer_ IGOR ZENIN

Roosters

Apr 12, 2016

Roosters, once they abounded
in the morning mist.
With the gold spilling on the horizon,
at least one of them would wake me up,
like the truth of God.
Its trilling note would call my name thrice in the woods.
Now they are all gone,
sunk in the enormous history of my little old town.
Their clear annunciation of truth
echoed an affirmation sung in the first ray of the early sun.
Now they are gone; all gone out of the way.
There is none that understands what they said.
Words, like the rooster's call, are said to those who understand

When You Are Quiet

When you are quiet and serene,
the cold winter fireside glows;
your face hides in the shadows;
a grey mist hides the silver screen.
A silence presides over your being,
and in the dark interior of your mind
I see nothing else except your lips.

Image via David Testa

DREAMING IS AN ART

 DREAMING IS AN ART

Think of me and dream
when it's raining
bitter and sore;
when the last of the raindrops falling on your heart
is lingering still in the eye,
think of me and dream.
I promise , I shan't be far away
from where your land of dream will be.
I have time on my hands for you,
yeah, all the time in the world,
the most idle being in the world, my idleness is all attuned to you.
Think of me and dream;
dreaming is an art we wrought
to a perfection in our life.
And dream is the only balm
that heals without a healing hand.
Didn't I tell you once,
 that I was a physician par excellence
once upon a time?