Aug 23, 2017 when the world went dark

In the hour of eclipse when the world went dark
several windows opened
in the squares of greenish luminescence
on this globe of earth making its diurnal rounds.
The shapes: squares, rectangles, circles, spheres, and planes...
all measurable with the mathematical certainty,
promised that the cosmos moved with predictability.
And all of a sudden in that dark hour
this single flower in the vase on my table
gained intuitive transparency.
It showed me all the delicate veins,
all the channels which carried the sap of life,
and the flower lived with a certainty.
What I thought was a fragility
was a life lived to its fullest possibility.
All its colors were encoded in the genes
and I listened to the subtle sounds of their harmony.
The cosmos embraced the flower and me.
That was the moment I felt I wasn't alone;
the flower and I were a part of the cosmic continuity.
SUSHAMA KARNIK (c)

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  tony langmach+1

  Uhh, Your a very sensing Earthling & amazing poetress
  I send smiles
  You are Never alone...`))

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  Aug 23, 2017

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  Sushama Karnik+1

  Yes Tony +tony langmach you too, remember that We are never alone.

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  Aug 23, 2017

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  Kevin Walsh+1

  wow......you are delicate and wise and passionate and shy and push the boundaries the way all flowers and trees one day rise up through soil to show us their colors.......this is astounding. I am eclipsed by your poetic capabilities at times and I thank you for that Sushama

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  Aug 23, 2017

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• 
  Sushama Karnik+2

  Coming to the end of the trail
  my time is near to say farewell.
  i have reached the shore.
  The sea calls, the vastness stuns
  all the knots come undone.
  There is peace, o peace everywhere!
  All through the day
  my shadow trailed
  and footprints followed,
  and i had not the time to erase the traces,
  but my trailing shadow never failed
  to remind that she too followed.
  I do not have the heart to efface
  the all time witness of my travails.

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Streets Evolve

Streets evolve
on a minor scale
like civilizations over centuries.
The line of beginning
 is always drawn
arbitrarily, some vague morning in childhood
when the idle child saw
a cat sitting on the fencing wall
meditative, silent, marginalized,
and the street flowing irrelevantly relaxed;
the cat and the street, tied up in a bond
of "Live and let live", and the world passed by
always ahead of the cat , the child and the narrow street.
Years pass by, the child grows up.
The cat is swallowed by the passage of time;
the street has grown, expanded in width;
it's noisy, chaotic and infinitely sad
at the peace and the shadows of palm-trees lost.
No cat basks in the morning sun.
The fencing wall is redundant now;
the sweet neighboring cottages are merged
 in one gigantic shopping-mall.

Jun 25, 2015

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The rains are words,
but they don't speak;
they fall
like the dust, like ash,
like blossoms of fire,
like the breath withheld long.
The suddenness, frightening,
the lightning;
they are words
not meant to be heard.

Rains rush
into the empty swamps,
forlorn homes,
sweep away the wings of birds in the nests.

Rains fall
on herds of cows,
in the green meadows where the cows cannot reach,
on the mountain ranges,
everywhere the rains fall like words,
ruminations of thoughts,
rudimentary like the first stroke of a brush
on a canvas that does not speak.

words and the paint,
the paper and ink,
and the brush and the paint,
in a combat for ascendency,
for capturing the Zen.
In exhaustion,
the words freeze;
the paint waits
impatiently;
the canvas cracks like a barren land.

Nothing speaks in the land where the rains fall
like words,
like the dust of ashes and sand.
SUSHAMA KARNIK (C)
June 25, 2015

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A bird comes often and sits
on the cold window sill.
Sitting on the outside
it keeps looking in
as if to say, " I can see through you;
see your colors!"
And so long as it sits there, I keep away from the window.
because I know
how it is with the birds in snow.
I wonder if I open the window
will the bird come in or fly away
back to the sky in the winter gray.

4d

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Between the sips of the coffee in hand
and reading the words blurred by the vapors on the screen
the mind often wanders too far.
It connects with a world with its own autonomy
and comes back to reconnect with the world of words.
How is that for widening the reading's horizon?
Up and down,
dark and brown,
just like the coffee in my hand.

Souheil Ghammachi

Public

Feb 13, 2018

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But I’m on the outside
I’m looking in
I can see through you
See your true colors...

Souheil Ghammachi

Public

Feb 13, 2018

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But I’m on the outside
I’m looking in
I can see through you
See your true colors...

Oct 21, 2017

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There is a reason
why we often come to the sea
offseason
to feel the breeze,
to gather the feelings that have no cause,
the feelings that have been there, for no reason.
We gather them suddenly one fine morning,
put them in a bottle without a name
to let them float out there with the tide,
a nameless child
out to create its own life.

By Sushama Karnik
Oct 21, 2017

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  tony langmach

  Ohh, So Deep... This also truly hit a nerve in me...

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  Oct 21, 2017

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  Sem Xtz2017

  Frumos, profund și emoționant!💘
  O seară liniștită îți doresc, poeta mea favorită!
  Inspirație maximă!!📝📝👍👍
  🌿🌹🌹🌹🌿☕🍵🍰🍩🍮🍫🍉🍁🎶🙅😊👋

  Translate

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  Oct 21, 2017

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  Sushama Karnik+2

  This photographer is from Sweden. His posts are few and far between; hardly one or two in a month. I had an interesting conversation with him below this post, on his page. +tony langmach, and +Sem Xtz2017

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  Oct 21, 2017

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In The War torn Days

Jun 12, 2016

In war-torn days they met
when they did not know
what to do with life
which brought such love they could neither  take nor hide
Her youth going to seed,
eyes bulging with sleeplessness,
and her hands...
instead of let them hang by her side
she gathered them and held close.
"One day i will come," said he,
"with heaps of currency notes
and a dream-boat; wait for me."
And she said okay.
Years went by and one day she died.
They put her in the coffin,
her hands held close,
one upon the other
as on the day she mutely said,
"Okay, I shall wait."

anu x originally shared to Art:

Oskar Kokoschka
Martha Hirsch (1909)

Oskar Kokoschka 1886-1980

Expressionist painter, draughtsman and lithographer of portraits, landscapes and figure subjects; author of several plays and other writings. Born at Pöchlarn, Austria, of Czech and Austrian parentage. Studied at the Vienna School of Arts and Crafts 1905-9. His early paintings and plays aroused intense antagonism, but he was befriended by Adolf Loos, with whose help he received his first commissions for portraits; also contributed drawings to the Berlin periodical Der Sturm. First one-man exhibition at the Galerie Paul Cassirer, Berlin, 1910. Badly wounded in 1915 serving on the Eastern Front. Moved in 1917 to Dresden and taught at the Dresden Academy 1919-24. From 1924 period of travel in Europe and North Africa; series of views of great European cities. After the rise of the Nazis, whom he always outspokenly opposed, he moved in 1934 to Prague, then in 1938 to England. Became a British subject in 1947. From 1953 lived mainly at Villeneuve in Switzerland. Ran a summer painting school, the Schule des Sehens (School of Seeing) at Salzburg 1953-63; designed sets and costumes for the theatre and the opera. His autobiography Mein Leben was published in 1971. Died in Montreux.

Published in:
Ronald Alley, Catalogue of the Tate Gallery's Collection of Modern Art other than Works by British Artists, Tate Gallery and Sotheby Parke-Bernet, London 1981, p.391

~ http://www.tate.org.uk/art/artists/oskar-kokoschka-1430

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image from http://www.wikiart.org/en/oskar-kokoschka
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#Art #OskarKokoschka
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