Krishna
The East was crowned with snow-cold bloom
And hung with veils of pearly fleece:
They died away into the gloom,
Vistas of peace—and deeper peace.
And earth and air and wave and fire
In awe and breathless silence stood;
For One who passed into their choir
Linked them in mystic brotherhood.
Twilight of amethyst, amid
Thy few strange stars that lit the heights,
Where was the secret spirit hid?
Where was Thy place, O Light of Lights?
The flame of Beauty far in space—
Where rose the fire: in Thee? in Me?
Which bowed the elemental race
To adoration silently?
---George William Russell
Cat's Dream
How neatly a cat sleeps,
sleeps with its paws and its posture,
sleeps with its wicked claws,
and with its unfeeling blood,
sleeps with all the rings--
a series of burnt circles--
which have formed the odd geology
of its sand-colored tail.
I should like to sleep like a cat,
with all the fur of time,
with a tongue rough as flint,
with the dry sex of fire;
and after speaking to no one,
stretch myself over the world,
over roofs and landscapes,
with a passionate desire
to hunt the rats in my dreams.
I have seen how the cat asleep
would undulate, how the night
flowed through it like dark water;
and at times, it was going to fall
or possibly plunge into
the bare deserted snowdrifts.
Sometimes it grew so much in sleep
like a tiger's great-grandfather,
and would leap in the darkness over
rooftops, clouds and volcanoes.
Sleep, sleep cat of the night,
with episcopal ceremony
and your stone-carved moustache.
Take care of all our dreams;
control the obscurity
of our slumbering prowess
with your relentless heart
and the great ruff of your tail.
--- Pablo Neruda (Translated by Alastair Reid)
Lines to be embroidered on a Bib
(or) The Child Is Father Of The Man, But Not For Quite A While
So Thomas Edison
Never drank his medicine;
So Blackstone and Hoyle
Refused cod-liver oil;
So Sir Thomas Malory
Never heard of a calory;
So the Earl of Lennox
Murdered Rizzio without the aid of vitamins or calisthenox;
So Socrates and Plato
Ate dessert without finishing their potato;
So spinach was too spinachy
For Leonardo da Vinaci;
Well, it's all immaterial,
So eat your nice cereal,
And if you want to name your ration,
First go get a reputation.
---Ogden Nash
A Farewell
Good-bye: nay, do not grieve that it is over—
The perfect hour;
That the winged joy, sweet honey-loving rover,
Flits from the flower.
Grieve not,—it is the law. Love will be flying—
Yea, love and all.
Glad was the living; blessed be the dying!
Let the leaves fall.
--- Harriet Monroe
À Bas Ben Adhem
My fellow man I do not care for.
I often ask me, What's he there for?
The only answer I can find
Is, Reproduction of his kind.
If I'm supposed to swallow that,
Winnetka is my habitat.
Isn't it time to carve Hic Jacet
Above that Reproduction racket?
To make the matter more succint:
Suppose my fellow man extinct.
Why, who would not approve the plan
Save possibly my fellow man?
Yet with a politician's voice
He names himself as Nature's choice.
The finest of the human race
Are bad in figure, worse in face.
Yet just because they have two legs
And come from storks instead of eggs
They count the spacious firmament
As something to be charged and sent.
Though man created cross-town traffic,
The Daily Mirror, News and Graphic,
The pastoral fight and fighting pastor,
And Queen Marie and Lady Astor,
He hails himself with drum and fife
And bullies lower forms of life.
Not that I think much depends
On how we treat our feathered friends,
Or hold the wrinkled elephant
A nobler creature than my aunt.
It's simply that I'm sure I can
Get on without my fellow man.
---Ogden Nash
Lines on the Mermaid Tavern
Souls of Poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known,
Happy field or mossy cavern,
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
Have ye tippled drink more fine
Than mine host's Canary wine?
Or are fruits of Paradise
Sweeter than those dainty pies
Of venison? O generous food!
Drest as though bold Robin Hood
Would, with his maid Marian,
Sup and bowse from horn and can.
I have heard that on a day
Mine host's sign-board flew away,
Nobody knew whither, till
An astrologer's old quill
To a sheepskin gave the story,
Said he saw you in your glory,
Underneath a new old sign
Sipping beverage divine,
And pledging with contented smack
The Mermaid in the Zodiac.
Souls of Poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known,
Happy field or mossy cavern,
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
--- John Keats
Goody for Our Side and Your Side Too
Foreigners are people somewhere else,
Natives are people at home;
If the place you’re at
Is your habitat,
You’re a foreigner, say in Rome.
But the scales of Justice balance true,
And tit leads into tat,
So the man who’s at home
When he stays in Rome
Is abroad when he’s where you’re at.
When we leave the limits of the land in which
Our birth certificates sat us,
It does not mean
Just a change of scene,
But also a change of status.
The Frenchman with his fetching beard,
The Scot with his kilt and sporran,
One moment he
May a native be,
And the next may find him foreign.
There’s many a difference quickly found
Between the different races,
But the only essential
Differential
Is living different places.
Yet such is the pride of prideful man,
From Austrians to Australians,
That wherever he is,
He regards as his,
And the natives there, as aliens.
Oh, I’ll be friends if you’ll be friends,
The foreigner tells the native,
And we’ll work together for our common ends
Like a preposition and a dative.
If our common ends seem mostly mine,
Why not, you ignorant foreigner?
And the native replies
Contrariwise;
And hence, my dears, the coroner.
So mind your manners when a native, please,
And doubly when you visit
And between us all
A rapport may fall
Ecstatically exquisite.
One simple thought, if you have it pat,
Will eliminate the coroner:
You may be a native in your habitat,
But to foreigners you’re just a foreigner.
--- Ogden Nash
Balloons
Since Christmas they have lived with us,
Guileless and clear,
Oval soul-animals,
Taking up half the space,
Moving and rubbing on the silk
Invisible air drifts,
Giving a shriek and pop
When attacked, then scooting to rest, barely trembling.
Yellow cathead, blue fish--------
Such queer moons we live with
Instead of dead furniture!
Straw mats, white walls
And these traveling
Globes of thin air, red, green,
Delighting
The heart like wishes or free
Peacocks blessing
Old ground with a feather
Beaten in starry metals.
Your small
Brother is making
His balloon squeak like a cat.
Seeming to see
A funny pink world he might eat on the other side of it,
He bites,
Then sits
Back, fat jug
Contemplating a world clear as water.
A red
Shred in his little fist.
--- Sylvia Plath
"the copy paste"
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Friday, October 23, 2009
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
"Imperfect Archives" at 801 Projects poignantly portrays the past
By Carlos Suarez De Jesus
Sitting at a work table, Nereida Garcia Ferraz hands out recipes for boniatillo con queso to a throng of strangers cramping her installation at Little Havana's 801 Projects.
For the Cuban-American artist, the traditional sweet potato dish was the type of comfort food that made the frosty Midwestern winters bearable during her youth.
"Nitza Villapol's cookbook was one of the few things my 76-year-old mother, Juana, was able to bring with us from Cuba when we came to Chicago in the '60s," Garcia Ferraz laughs. "For me, those recipes and dishes were as nourishing as a kid growing up in those brutal Chicago winters as were the theories of Jacques Lacan and Michel Foucault when I studied at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago later on."
Her work is on display in "Imperfect Archives," an all-woman group show that also includes work by Amalia Caputo, Consuelo Castañeda, Liz Cerejido, Ana Albertina Delgado, Odalis Valdivieso, Eugenia Vargas Pereira, and Angela Valella.
Garcia Ferraz, Castañeda, and Valella organized and curated the show. Another bond the participants share is that some of them recently lost their mothers, while others are coping with moms living with debilitating illnesses.
The exhibit examines the use of archives through books. For these artists, the book remains a powerful catalyst that inspires fantasy, nostalgia, and considerations of earthly and political concerns. The conceptual mishmash features installations, works on paper, photography, paintings, and video and sound pieces created during the past year.
Perhaps most remarkable is that the overarching subtext of the show reads like a fragmented codex strongly binding the women to their mothers.
The artists also stubbornly refuse to concede that books will soon go the way of the dodo or eight-track tapes.
"Books will last forever," Garcia Ferraz intones. "They are the first things we carry with us when we end relationships or when we experience different aspects of our lives. Most anyone can remember the titles of their favorite volumes that have been lost, stolen, or even chewed by their dogs."
She goes on to compare people to dog-eared tomes. "If you think of it, each of us is like a book in different clothes," she says, skidding on the banana peel of cliché. "But while each of us in the exhibit has very different lives, we are still joined by the same passions and have parallel visions at the same time."
In addition to handing out her mother's favorite recipes, Garcia Ferraz created an installation in a room she painted in a dark, tarry tone. She covered the walls with striking black-and-white photographs of the show's participants in grandiose poses as if they were literary figures from the past.
At the room's center, she sits at a table, erasing text from a book about 16th-century Italian paintings. Occasionally she pauses to add her own drawings to the volume's illustrations. Her space looks somewhat like an East German interrogation chamber and exudes a musty whiff of Cold War-era disinformation and censorship.
"I wanted to convey a sense of the lessons we learn and the lessons we lose," she says. "Miami is like the Tower of Babel. People from all over the world live here, but sometimes we lose our literature, our identity, and even a sense of place."
Garcia Ferraz, whose elderly mother suffers from advanced stages of Alzheimer's, says the exhibit is an homage to her mom.
"My mother loved to read," she sighs. "One of the things Mami still conserves is a photo book with scenes of Cuba we keep next to her bed. Although she never got to return to her homeland, she still loves those pictures. For me, what each of us has done for this show has deep roots and lots of branches touching upon many things."
At the entrance of the capacious three-story building, housing several artists' studios, Angela Valella created a sprawling collage installation out of torn book pages, photographs, postcards, and even notes and thoughts jotted on scraps of paper by her mother, Aracely Dominguez Daniel, who passed away this spring at the age of 83.
"Right before dying, she asked for a piece of paper and wrote her final note with a trembling hand," Valella says with a faltering voice. When she looked at the spidery scrawl, it read, "I'm sorry to tell you all that I've always been different than all of you."
Says the artist: "Mami was considered the weird one in her family. I didn't realize till recently how this project has been a discovery of who she was for me."
Valella says her mother was a writer who had an operatic singing voice she often used to entertain friends. "She lived in a building in Miami Beach where some of her neighbors played the piano, and they would get together and perform. When she died, she left this trove of books in her apartment that included early signed editions by Gabriel García Márquez, Mario Benedetti, and many other important writers that left me amazed."
She also left behind reams of her own writings, which have inspired Valella's installation.
For her piece, Valella tore page 47 from some of her mother's books to cover a wall. Nineteen forty-seven was the year her mother married and her lucky number, the artist explains.
She also had one of her mother's neighbors climb a boom crane and shoot bird's-eye-view pictures of her mother's home, which she has integrated into her collage. "I also underlined random passages from the book pages and was surprised to discover a narrative emerging as the piece evolved," Valella notes.
Throughout the rabbit warren of small project rooms and halls in the building, old-fangled overhead projectors beam theoretical mumbo jumbo by French philosophers onto walls. It's an intellectual nod to the deconstruction of text. But it all seems overplayed.
More interesting, though, are photographs by Eugenia Vargas Pereira, who lost her 100-year-old mother earlier this year while rushing home to Chile to be at her side. In images saturated with gorgeous crimson and azure hues, Vargas Pereira swims in a back-yard pool while holding a rare gilded edition of Dante's Inferno. The book came from the collection of Valella's mom.
Equally compelling is an untitled work by Liz Cerejido, who for many years has documented her 77-year-old mother Helida's descent into the ravages of Alzheimer's. For her take on the imperfect archive, Cerejido covered a wall in slate gray and painted phrases in chalk over it, adding a sound element with a recording of her mother's voice.
"I had my mother read words to me from flash cards I gave her before she stopped speaking two years ago. Mom is now in the final stages of her disease," Cerejido informs. "The phrases on the wall are random words I used to describe the experiences of an imaginary Cuban exile family that had very different lives than we did, but sadly that wasn't the case," the artist explains. "Instead, the words you hear in the sound element of the installation refer to how my mother lived more an existence like Penelope waiting faithfully for the return of Ulysses, or in our case, my father, who never made it here from Cuba to join us in the United States."
Although some of the works convey a deep sense of sorrow or nostalgia, none veers to the maudlin or morbid, which enhances the rhythm of the show.
Odalis Valdivieso adds some welcome humor with her sound piece, The Black Bean Audio Archive. The 30-something Venezuelan artist has worked on it for the past 11 years, collecting oral recipes of Miami's favorite legume from people across town.
"So far, I have 126 different recipes from people like my grandmother, maids, workmates, and other folks I have encountered through the years," the youngest participant boasts.
"To me, black beans are a signature dish that links Hispanics, Afro-Americans, and almost every culture in our city," she says. "Just this last week, I ate a totally new version that included malanga with the beans. They were pretty hearty and tasty."
And not unlike the contrasting recipes for frijoles negros, this exhibit, with its many disparate approaches, more than lives up to its name.
*********************************************
Angela's Archive (2009), by Angela Valella
Details:
"Imperfect Archives": Through October 30. 801 Projects, 801 SW Third Ave., Miami; 305-266-6155. Weekdays 11 a.m. to 5 p.m. or by appointment. Exhibit closes with a book sale October 30.
Subject(s):
Imperfect Archives, 801 Projects, Miami local art
Sitting at a work table, Nereida Garcia Ferraz hands out recipes for boniatillo con queso to a throng of strangers cramping her installation at Little Havana's 801 Projects.
For the Cuban-American artist, the traditional sweet potato dish was the type of comfort food that made the frosty Midwestern winters bearable during her youth.
"Nitza Villapol's cookbook was one of the few things my 76-year-old mother, Juana, was able to bring with us from Cuba when we came to Chicago in the '60s," Garcia Ferraz laughs. "For me, those recipes and dishes were as nourishing as a kid growing up in those brutal Chicago winters as were the theories of Jacques Lacan and Michel Foucault when I studied at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago later on."
Her work is on display in "Imperfect Archives," an all-woman group show that also includes work by Amalia Caputo, Consuelo Castañeda, Liz Cerejido, Ana Albertina Delgado, Odalis Valdivieso, Eugenia Vargas Pereira, and Angela Valella.
Garcia Ferraz, Castañeda, and Valella organized and curated the show. Another bond the participants share is that some of them recently lost their mothers, while others are coping with moms living with debilitating illnesses.
The exhibit examines the use of archives through books. For these artists, the book remains a powerful catalyst that inspires fantasy, nostalgia, and considerations of earthly and political concerns. The conceptual mishmash features installations, works on paper, photography, paintings, and video and sound pieces created during the past year.
Perhaps most remarkable is that the overarching subtext of the show reads like a fragmented codex strongly binding the women to their mothers.
The artists also stubbornly refuse to concede that books will soon go the way of the dodo or eight-track tapes.
"Books will last forever," Garcia Ferraz intones. "They are the first things we carry with us when we end relationships or when we experience different aspects of our lives. Most anyone can remember the titles of their favorite volumes that have been lost, stolen, or even chewed by their dogs."
She goes on to compare people to dog-eared tomes. "If you think of it, each of us is like a book in different clothes," she says, skidding on the banana peel of cliché. "But while each of us in the exhibit has very different lives, we are still joined by the same passions and have parallel visions at the same time."
In addition to handing out her mother's favorite recipes, Garcia Ferraz created an installation in a room she painted in a dark, tarry tone. She covered the walls with striking black-and-white photographs of the show's participants in grandiose poses as if they were literary figures from the past.
At the room's center, she sits at a table, erasing text from a book about 16th-century Italian paintings. Occasionally she pauses to add her own drawings to the volume's illustrations. Her space looks somewhat like an East German interrogation chamber and exudes a musty whiff of Cold War-era disinformation and censorship.
"I wanted to convey a sense of the lessons we learn and the lessons we lose," she says. "Miami is like the Tower of Babel. People from all over the world live here, but sometimes we lose our literature, our identity, and even a sense of place."
Garcia Ferraz, whose elderly mother suffers from advanced stages of Alzheimer's, says the exhibit is an homage to her mom.
"My mother loved to read," she sighs. "One of the things Mami still conserves is a photo book with scenes of Cuba we keep next to her bed. Although she never got to return to her homeland, she still loves those pictures. For me, what each of us has done for this show has deep roots and lots of branches touching upon many things."
At the entrance of the capacious three-story building, housing several artists' studios, Angela Valella created a sprawling collage installation out of torn book pages, photographs, postcards, and even notes and thoughts jotted on scraps of paper by her mother, Aracely Dominguez Daniel, who passed away this spring at the age of 83.
"Right before dying, she asked for a piece of paper and wrote her final note with a trembling hand," Valella says with a faltering voice. When she looked at the spidery scrawl, it read, "I'm sorry to tell you all that I've always been different than all of you."
Says the artist: "Mami was considered the weird one in her family. I didn't realize till recently how this project has been a discovery of who she was for me."
Valella says her mother was a writer who had an operatic singing voice she often used to entertain friends. "She lived in a building in Miami Beach where some of her neighbors played the piano, and they would get together and perform. When she died, she left this trove of books in her apartment that included early signed editions by Gabriel García Márquez, Mario Benedetti, and many other important writers that left me amazed."
She also left behind reams of her own writings, which have inspired Valella's installation.
For her piece, Valella tore page 47 from some of her mother's books to cover a wall. Nineteen forty-seven was the year her mother married and her lucky number, the artist explains.
She also had one of her mother's neighbors climb a boom crane and shoot bird's-eye-view pictures of her mother's home, which she has integrated into her collage. "I also underlined random passages from the book pages and was surprised to discover a narrative emerging as the piece evolved," Valella notes.
Throughout the rabbit warren of small project rooms and halls in the building, old-fangled overhead projectors beam theoretical mumbo jumbo by French philosophers onto walls. It's an intellectual nod to the deconstruction of text. But it all seems overplayed.
More interesting, though, are photographs by Eugenia Vargas Pereira, who lost her 100-year-old mother earlier this year while rushing home to Chile to be at her side. In images saturated with gorgeous crimson and azure hues, Vargas Pereira swims in a back-yard pool while holding a rare gilded edition of Dante's Inferno. The book came from the collection of Valella's mom.
Equally compelling is an untitled work by Liz Cerejido, who for many years has documented her 77-year-old mother Helida's descent into the ravages of Alzheimer's. For her take on the imperfect archive, Cerejido covered a wall in slate gray and painted phrases in chalk over it, adding a sound element with a recording of her mother's voice.
"I had my mother read words to me from flash cards I gave her before she stopped speaking two years ago. Mom is now in the final stages of her disease," Cerejido informs. "The phrases on the wall are random words I used to describe the experiences of an imaginary Cuban exile family that had very different lives than we did, but sadly that wasn't the case," the artist explains. "Instead, the words you hear in the sound element of the installation refer to how my mother lived more an existence like Penelope waiting faithfully for the return of Ulysses, or in our case, my father, who never made it here from Cuba to join us in the United States."
Although some of the works convey a deep sense of sorrow or nostalgia, none veers to the maudlin or morbid, which enhances the rhythm of the show.
Odalis Valdivieso adds some welcome humor with her sound piece, The Black Bean Audio Archive. The 30-something Venezuelan artist has worked on it for the past 11 years, collecting oral recipes of Miami's favorite legume from people across town.
"So far, I have 126 different recipes from people like my grandmother, maids, workmates, and other folks I have encountered through the years," the youngest participant boasts.
"To me, black beans are a signature dish that links Hispanics, Afro-Americans, and almost every culture in our city," she says. "Just this last week, I ate a totally new version that included malanga with the beans. They were pretty hearty and tasty."
And not unlike the contrasting recipes for frijoles negros, this exhibit, with its many disparate approaches, more than lives up to its name.
*********************************************
Angela's Archive (2009), by Angela Valella
Details:
"Imperfect Archives": Through October 30. 801 Projects, 801 SW Third Ave., Miami; 305-266-6155. Weekdays 11 a.m. to 5 p.m. or by appointment. Exhibit closes with a book sale October 30.
Subject(s):
Imperfect Archives, 801 Projects, Miami local art
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Michael Flamingo
Black charcoal,
Of the soft quality
Finds its way across the paper
At that instant, a metamorphosis happens
White paper turns to
unlimited canvases.
Pencils of multi-layered nibs;
Penetrations and castrations
Of multiple natures;
100 Dollars for one vasectomy
1500, if the first born is of
womb and feminine genitals.
Camel-skinned tabla-top
almost pealing at its seams;
A drummer drums his mood
For a few whiskies more
He will play on the house
The whole bloodied night.
Two plays and only
half a performance
Disposable masks
for the fluorescent stage lights
This actor has a flair
for the grotesquely satiating.
14 August’09 (02:12 hrs)
Of the soft quality
Finds its way across the paper
At that instant, a metamorphosis happens
White paper turns to
unlimited canvases.
Pencils of multi-layered nibs;
Penetrations and castrations
Of multiple natures;
100 Dollars for one vasectomy
1500, if the first born is of
womb and feminine genitals.
Camel-skinned tabla-top
almost pealing at its seams;
A drummer drums his mood
For a few whiskies more
He will play on the house
The whole bloodied night.
Two plays and only
half a performance
Disposable masks
for the fluorescent stage lights
This actor has a flair
for the grotesquely satiating.
14 August’09 (02:12 hrs)
Wet Canvas, Gooey (Jack)fruit
The overwhelmingly sweet smell
of ripe jackfruits
Fills the room;
Outside, the wind is low
but it still rains.
Humming along with the jukebox number
Already sinking into a quiet stupor;
a string of nebulous ideas
without a structured framework.
An acrylic painting, some disjointed lamps
a paintbrush dripping
of vivid colour,
and newspapers creased for the effect.
There are tags, names
to these canvasses;
a prize for the electically-inspired
voyeur,
And the constant sickening smell of ripe jackfruits
for those who can only desire.
25 June’08
of ripe jackfruits
Fills the room;
Outside, the wind is low
but it still rains.
Humming along with the jukebox number
Already sinking into a quiet stupor;
a string of nebulous ideas
without a structured framework.
An acrylic painting, some disjointed lamps
a paintbrush dripping
of vivid colour,
and newspapers creased for the effect.
There are tags, names
to these canvasses;
a prize for the electically-inspired
voyeur,
And the constant sickening smell of ripe jackfruits
for those who can only desire.
25 June’08
Lingering...
(1)
In the landscape of rebellion
I, an aspiring poet
You, a wage earner
She, a domestic help
Wait.
(2)
Images filter in
As we commence on new journeys
New gods for inspiration
The sun sets.
(3)
A new morning doesn’t bring the
Dawn --- long awaited
Harsh light tries to defy
Delusions and indifferences.
(4)
Coping with ordinary conversations
People morphing into their perceptions
A revolution gone stale
Perhaps, a metaphor will save us.
(5)
In the landscape of rebellion
I, an aspiring poet
You, a wage earner
She, a domestic help
Wait.
5.05.08
In the landscape of rebellion
I, an aspiring poet
You, a wage earner
She, a domestic help
Wait.
(2)
Images filter in
As we commence on new journeys
New gods for inspiration
The sun sets.
(3)
A new morning doesn’t bring the
Dawn --- long awaited
Harsh light tries to defy
Delusions and indifferences.
(4)
Coping with ordinary conversations
People morphing into their perceptions
A revolution gone stale
Perhaps, a metaphor will save us.
(5)
In the landscape of rebellion
I, an aspiring poet
You, a wage earner
She, a domestic help
Wait.
5.05.08
Conversations with men and witches
Pardon me, I didn’t get the meaning
Of your continued silences;
Or the abstract of your long speeches.
I admit I am a little absent-minded
With a five-second attention span,
Especially when it comes to rhetoric.
There must be some way we can communicate
Some way to break this impasse;
Maybe I can read to you,
Or will you sing me a song?
Sigh! Pardon me, and my excesses
The constant drilling noise of nonsense.
A bus ride to nowhere might help
To open up clogged spaces and interrupted conversations:
This girl I shared a seat with
Became a friend, a confidante for fleeting minutes
She showed me her city and told me a story
When we departed, I still didn’t know her name.
Pardon me, yet again, for bothering you so
But these questions and conflicts are endless,
And my vivid imagination acts a disturbing catalyst
To this long night.
As the full moon stares through my window
My self leaves me and goes hunting for witches.
24.06.08
Of your continued silences;
Or the abstract of your long speeches.
I admit I am a little absent-minded
With a five-second attention span,
Especially when it comes to rhetoric.
There must be some way we can communicate
Some way to break this impasse;
Maybe I can read to you,
Or will you sing me a song?
Sigh! Pardon me, and my excesses
The constant drilling noise of nonsense.
A bus ride to nowhere might help
To open up clogged spaces and interrupted conversations:
This girl I shared a seat with
Became a friend, a confidante for fleeting minutes
She showed me her city and told me a story
When we departed, I still didn’t know her name.
Pardon me, yet again, for bothering you so
But these questions and conflicts are endless,
And my vivid imagination acts a disturbing catalyst
To this long night.
As the full moon stares through my window
My self leaves me and goes hunting for witches.
24.06.08
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Seeking Saturation Part-2
I wrote this just a while back as a letter to my childhood friend, an
artist and dreamer like me, to whom a mail was long overdue. I wished
to write in prose but i was too full of myself so..For now,I rest my case;)
Where do I begin? There is always so much to speak to you, to hear
from u, so many burdens to unload, so many more learnings to unlearn,.
where do I begin?
If I were a poet, I would sketch you a picture with my words, my
imagined metaphors of my consolidated spans of experiences and lives
lived
But I havent practised the painful art of expression too long.
If I could even half-draw like the way you dream, I would take you on
a deep long journey,
Inside my self and the many more costumes and hijazs I don, like a peace soldier
Who, hopelessly still believes in love, yet feels militant in the
warped web that human relationships manifest into.
If I was an orator, I would ask you to pay me court
To endear me with your arts and only than I would have charmed you immaculate
With the wine of verses and the minute little details of the night's excesses
But I am none of the above, ofcourse.
That's why this befits only an electronic note of fragmented nature
My heartbreak is complete, it is after all my own desire and my own
decisive frenzy
I turn towards ascetism ever much more, the inward gaze becomes
highlighted when these trappings leave me alone.
Alone by choice, at this very moment, I dont dream of inane men or
nicotine-laced postscripts
I dont even give in to gluttony's merry potluck party
I dont even sulk, nor do I attempt a fake laugh
I know more than I should, at my age,
Is that my disease?
I desire more than most women should,
And even these desires, these passions, are of not this world
Is that the heresy I commit?
I have travelled so many lands in a frenzied pace
Yet accumulated sparkling memories from every encounter
Is that what twicks your jealous soul?
I ask questions which we are still searching and formulating correct answers for
I see through your half-truths and half-loves, lived in fantastic interiors
You build to raise your kids, to showcase the good life, the stamp of
the currency
Maybe that's what you always seeked, but why do you wish to straddle me too
To your many fangled contraptions and acquired exhibitions
I am here, at my own sweet pace
I will go before it's too late.
13 August 2009.
artist and dreamer like me, to whom a mail was long overdue. I wished
to write in prose but i was too full of myself so..For now,I rest my case;)
Where do I begin? There is always so much to speak to you, to hear
from u, so many burdens to unload, so many more learnings to unlearn,.
where do I begin?
If I were a poet, I would sketch you a picture with my words, my
imagined metaphors of my consolidated spans of experiences and lives
lived
But I havent practised the painful art of expression too long.
If I could even half-draw like the way you dream, I would take you on
a deep long journey,
Inside my self and the many more costumes and hijazs I don, like a peace soldier
Who, hopelessly still believes in love, yet feels militant in the
warped web that human relationships manifest into.
If I was an orator, I would ask you to pay me court
To endear me with your arts and only than I would have charmed you immaculate
With the wine of verses and the minute little details of the night's excesses
But I am none of the above, ofcourse.
That's why this befits only an electronic note of fragmented nature
My heartbreak is complete, it is after all my own desire and my own
decisive frenzy
I turn towards ascetism ever much more, the inward gaze becomes
highlighted when these trappings leave me alone.
Alone by choice, at this very moment, I dont dream of inane men or
nicotine-laced postscripts
I dont even give in to gluttony's merry potluck party
I dont even sulk, nor do I attempt a fake laugh
I know more than I should, at my age,
Is that my disease?
I desire more than most women should,
And even these desires, these passions, are of not this world
Is that the heresy I commit?
I have travelled so many lands in a frenzied pace
Yet accumulated sparkling memories from every encounter
Is that what twicks your jealous soul?
I ask questions which we are still searching and formulating correct answers for
I see through your half-truths and half-loves, lived in fantastic interiors
You build to raise your kids, to showcase the good life, the stamp of
the currency
Maybe that's what you always seeked, but why do you wish to straddle me too
To your many fangled contraptions and acquired exhibitions
I am here, at my own sweet pace
I will go before it's too late.
13 August 2009.
From Untouchably Yours
An insect sipped into your beer mug
Shaped for a cuppa coffee.
Your untouchable doesn’t even dare
To look up beyond your pelvic bones.
There seems to be an anarchy of sorts
Countering your fascisms and superstitions
And politics of maniac dictatorship.
These socially-sanctioned orgies
Of the hi brow and the well-heeled drives
Passions of incestuously volatile frequencies.
Godless, the gypsies who died in Aushwitz
This war now, you are told, is always fought
For your religions.
Heedlessly under-circumventing
The warnings of your tarot card reader,
You try to uncage yourself
Emerge anew
Like a slave child, like a burst of balmy rains!
You awake, you order some coffee
In your custom made cocoa mug;
Your untouchable does the honours.
00.05 hrs. 14 August 2009. Kharguli Hills, Guwahati.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
The eardrums buzz
With the cacophony of bottleful of cicadas.
Dusk fuses into twilight
For the birds to return home.
Mere occasions
Hold the spirit and tantalize
For acutely brief spasms.
For crying foul
The winds stroke the trees,
Gently, first
And then vigorously and cruelly
To stupendity.
Defending the ghettos that
society has come to.
Literature in many tongues
Attempt to be naïve Justicia’s pages
She, now extolled in street-side fountains!
For want of tomfoolery
And native buffoonery,
We hold our souls on mortgage.
So our futures are secure
and our pasts as obscure.
Seasons alter the mindframes
and you are you, no more.
More or less,
neither am I.
Without Notice. 19th April, 2009. (20:32 hrs)
With the cacophony of bottleful of cicadas.
Dusk fuses into twilight
For the birds to return home.
Mere occasions
Hold the spirit and tantalize
For acutely brief spasms.
For crying foul
The winds stroke the trees,
Gently, first
And then vigorously and cruelly
To stupendity.
Defending the ghettos that
society has come to.
Literature in many tongues
Attempt to be naïve Justicia’s pages
She, now extolled in street-side fountains!
For want of tomfoolery
And native buffoonery,
We hold our souls on mortgage.
So our futures are secure
and our pasts as obscure.
Seasons alter the mindframes
and you are you, no more.
More or less,
neither am I.
Without Notice. 19th April, 2009. (20:32 hrs)
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