iced desires

The Ice Cutters, 1911, Natalia Goncharova

give us a pair of ice cutters
we will fix and pave a way
we are sure an angel will come from the moon

the snow cover on the trees waves at us
we do not believe in lies
angel cannot snatch away our dreams

we need a clay box to store the ice
it will be used to preserve our simple desires
those have fallen apart by the road side

"that sled carries the weight of our aspirations 
while our brother watches detachedly"

reflections

your lens has perfectly captured the seagulls-
one that is feeding from my hands,
I want to fly away with him 
from this cruel world
I need a cloak to hide

excaping from that prison was a stroke of luck
but I have no cash by goods to survive
no longer can I skirt that-
one that has become an issue with the world
the clouds hide the sun

I wish for venus to rise from the ocean-
I promise I will hold her as my beloved

a letter for you

I can handle border issues
you think I depend on you
unknowingly you depend on me
my insight did not warn me of this plight
this fire within me forces me to confront you head on
but you are on the road again
what crisis drives you away trouncing everything in its wake

my wings will help me fly away
but what about my promises I made to you?
words may have died between us for now
but you know I will stick around as always
I sense that you are lost now
and you know I will find you
as I have always done and always will
thanks to the world beyond

"what I and you have does not have a name
it does not have to
who wants to learn a new spelling inventing a new word?"

let him grab the world

Autumn on the River, 1889, John Singer Sargent 

there is no blackboard
however he writes on the blackened wall
suffering is his undoing to open up
he wants to escape the cycle
he wishes to disappear from that gathering
it might lessen the gap between him 
and his choice to create nothing
the long habits of his brothers compels him to stay
but he wants to give up his own habit
it is not a virtue for him to enforce suffering on oneself

"what would regard do, if one has no desire to go on?
flights of fancy will only take as afar, not just ascetism
one might just choose to float away like her
with no destination in sight neither in mind nor heart"

bridging the past with the future

befuddled she lay there
pain was only a breath away
it was a race to live
his silky voice kept holding her
if not for him
she would have fallen into that marsh
her mouth all cottony
she felt him pour the whiskey on her broken leg
some part of her mind was razor sharp
his lanky form hovered near her
willing her to live
wiling her to live
before he slipped into murky water below
not to be found

ten years later she sits transfixed,
her glass dropping from her hand,
a small puddle forming on her side-
reminds her of her fuddled experience
she keeps staring at that letter remembering,
thinking, "no one can isolate me now.
he has found me again. saved my life yet again."

"et cetera is not life. it is what she is now."

hanging from the buckle to dance

Danseuse ajustant sa bretelle, 1895-96, Edgar Degas 

I have nailed a buckle or two on the wall
and hang my poems on those.
I have heard my poems humming songs,
with much dignity and grace.
I take the visions in my stride.
when my muse goes to sleep
I do not miss it.
I take down one of the poems,
rearrange the words to gain a new one
my buckle too gets heavy

"the years have helped me navigate
my dance moves with the poems
so that I do not lose the instant of black and white"

a tattoo can say a thousand words

on an impulse
I get myself tattooed
a precise creation of some symbols
the rhythm of the tattoo artist
can only be felt by me
whisperings in the region within my head
resonate with the needle
I desire invisible ink
at the back of my neck
he does his work
with infinite care
while I create a distance in my mind

out of the two fists
one emits designs,
before I can even say
"what hit me?"

erosion

in the inky depth of that pool
I feel safe from immeasurable flames
I yearn for your breath
that breath you stole from me
in the guise of sleep in the waking hours.
oh, it is just a dream-
why did I allow it to erode me?
I pull the sheet closer still,
forgetting myth from truth.
I put on a mask again
throw a clay pebble into that imaginary pool
no one will allow bend the rules-
except you. except you.

that breath I need to keep in hiding-
leave it on the doormat on your way out

"time just moves on with its own pace,
unwavering about the aftermath-
uncaring about what to come."

balance it out

scented tentacles of alluring spices,
do they make your mouth water?

I have built a fence with bricks,
now I hide in that tastefully decorated
tasteless kitchen so that I won't cheat.

nothing is left for me-
everything tastes like gravel-
I seem to wallow in trash.

I precisely measure out portions-
that balance that you gifted to me
occupies a place of pride.

my cooking is an amalgam-
created in a vacant space,
with no spark in sight.

"no one notices the efforts of my dieting
yet when I die, I will weigh much less"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Afterthought@10/21/13: This poem is NOT about me. I am definitely not into dieting.  I believe in keeping healthy by proper nutrition and exercising. I am posting couple of pictures of myself....

doggy tales

my world is inside the binds
it is expected when one has a drunkard owner
I was born outside
thunder brought me in
I want to know
what prophet said that I have to care for a sleepy person
but yes I hold all the trumps
when my owner moves in circles
he is on edge not I
life outside of that fence may be full of adventure
but within the walls I am the master

when he will finally be sober
and mends that fence
I will jump out and seen no more

"yes, you see, I can jump that fence
but I choose not to do it now
because the leaves and weeds keep me enthralled"

erase that wall

image by crilleb50

what secret do the clocks hide-
last I looked they blinked at me
such clever gesture on their part
I want to look at the stars 
but I look down hiding my face
where will I nest in my twilight years
time does not let me know
hour hand of one of the clocks has swept away the cobwebs

I am now a basket case
my flesh ripe for picking
think what you may
I cannot leave the cliches to chance
don't let it be said
I saw all and never conquered

"the weeds will die under my walking stick
I would be left here, my bio carved in stone"

nirvana

photo by Mark Haley 

a lone tree in the sharp hillside-
where clouds spill all over it.
that exact spot where the ghosts gathered.
do they worship the tree
or jump off the edges to be alive again?
that stone-laid path is of no use to the dead-
unbidden weeds swarm all over
helping the red hot ghosts to walk silently.
I wish for the patches in the sky to be covered,
taking pictures with my cell phone.
believe me, there were ghosts
but none in the photos
if seeing is believing, then I am a liar

"that image of Buddha in the clouds compelled me-
the story which has holes has to be told,
someday someone will be enlightened"

crystal ball

The Moth and the Lamp, Cesar Santos 

why are you peering inside
what secret stories you seek to find
I cradle the glass ball
my wings are folded
my shoes undone
this enclosed space is my exile
my tiredness will soon make me into a pile
how I ended up here
I do not have a clue
I do know I have this itch to dance
it is like a rash one continues to scratch
now I want the wall to withdraw its claws
I will rejuvenate in no time

I could have stayed home
munched on apples
with milk and bread
but that was not to be

"I am destined for bigger things-
that french window is my silent partner"

sway that bay

that map is such a vibrant spread
but with a short, vacuous smile
I wish for a sassy, sumptuous feast of words
no manipulative nature will slather out vision
vivaciousness may be lost in violet trappings 
do get me some interesting currency
I wish to buy a country or two
interesting adventures beckon me
although that map is stuck in a place
but my mind wanders everywhere

"there is no single master of the world,
but who pulls the invisible strings?"

reading the menu in the clouds outside

I see magic in this train ride
a dimension lost for the present jet set generation
not so long ago
the intrigue of a simple menu was our center
it was an avenue of change from mundane life outside
in that crisp table cloth
stains had to answer for themselves
it sounds so strange to say it
but we played by the bell

in that kettle I can still taste the tea in one such journey
the blue marks reminds me of blossoming forget me not
his benign smile takes me down memory lane

tabled forever in my mind
the intrigue has been used to soothe me

"if only life was laid out in a small tray with few complications"

atop that tree, I sway to the wind

artwork by Jeanie Tomanek 

let me sway on top for some more time
I feel the freedom of our feathery friends
look at the bird so close to me
I think it wants to chat
in that wet heat
I feel the inky wind on my hair
in the leafless branches I see tiny shoots
it sparks new hope that life will never be lost in the mist
nature has well oiled itself to last forever
I will gather scarlet flowers to make another anklet
that elephant will break my fall from dropping into a hole

"in the grey of our lives,
we will always find red and maybe some yellow too.
I want it all in each and every hue"

cries inside the mind

photo by Steven Kelly 

enough explanations she heard from us
now she is going south
she will take the train,
feeling the gusting wind on her face
no, we cannot help her pick up the pieces
she needs to do it alone,
to stop the cries inside her head
filters do not work in there
be as bitter as one wishes to be
although we got no reason for that
she needs to tame the fierce emotions
to keep out the despair

"pieces of torn pages with her notes
will no longer hold her
she needs the solitary person within her to hold her hand
she needs her, only her to heal. 
to heal"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This came out of deep pain. Women are not respected in my country. Every day in Delhi or Mumbai or Bangalore, someone is gang raped. Yes, you read that right. Gang raped. Yet she survives. Because there is no other option. Our laws are very lax. Most rapist go scot free. The irony is, this is my country and I cannot leave it....

I have not used strong brutalized words here. Already there is enough brutality....

shaking it out, I dance to life

painting by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec

I must illuminate the circle of life 
not just an incentive for concrete deeds
I cannot wallow in self pity
let me scatter my thoughts on the pavement
I will weave some fantastic tapestry of thoughts
my pounding heart will not stop short at anything
stark emotions do not strain to break free
unbroken spirit do help one hitch
when I can dance to anything
please do not race into time
I don't expect a farewell 
finality of ending is not I seek
all are seeking my downfall
I will not let that happen
one who believes in me
will not let me fall

"a huge gathering may prevail
but I will do what is right"

existentialism

Drawing Hands, 1948 by M. C. Escher

after that long long walk
he rested his head finally on the roadside
something woke him out of that deep stupor
lost he stared at the sky above

all his life was a waste of time
if only he could go back home
each single breath propelling him
thought of it was so heavenly

holding on to a much thumbed paper
he thought of what was awaiting him
but his mind right now couldn't fathom
why was he totally lost in the drawing hands

he wished for eternal sleep
to get rid of his bottomless existence
to wipe out the ravages of war
deeply absorbed in his body and soul

holding on to the single thread of life
he wanted to escape the shadow
from the tang of salt in the air
his sense to live on took over

plans may have gone awry in the past
now was not the time to dwell on that
in the landscape of bigger things
gravity holds us all, he thought

"my mind circles and sends messages
that I need bread and also shoes-
the two things essential for existence"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Miz Quickly's Learning Experience

Choose a poem of between ten and twenty lines.

Not a favorite poem, but an obscure poem by a favorite poet. (…this could work with an older poem, but a contemporary work is to be preferred–the tone is more suitable….)

Type the poem, triple space. Then, between the lines, fill in a new line, based on or suggested by the original line.

Next, eliminate the original poem, close up your own lines, and tinker with them to make them cohere.

Consider this the first part of a longer poem, and label it so.

Then write a companion section–Part II, and entirely your own–that extends the first part by continuing or departing from or on some otherway varying the themes and images of the first

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I chose Pickle Belt by Theodore Roethke. Click on it to read the full poem. Last three stanzas can be taken as part 2!! But I will write something else SOON....

vintage ballooning

I fly over vegetation with the crows circling
who wove a tale that has lasted for eons?
I see scarce light on the ground
no one has the strength to see the eroded soil
last time I was there I could foresee rain
falling on the rooted cells of unknown plants
change has been less in reality
but mind has revisited it numerous times.
balloons may carry me away
but I will end up eroded on the ground

"no one can escape the inevitable end
non living objects are no different from living ones"

when the core rots, soul will disintegrate

painting by Andrew Wyeth 

a longing you cannot see
time to time it returns
driven by a lone tear
no one ever threw that key
a slate never wiped clean
behind that mesh
you become a stranger
no one can repair that tear
there is no room for despair
you may think the night will make me swoon
but I will wander no further before I return 
it is time to pick out the invisible nails
before I let my heart disintegrate

"a bloody path seems to be only way out
from a long journey of lies and deceits"

in the shadows, let it be

photo by Agustin Berrocal 

you can leave now
it was a mistake to invite you
I need to rest the cause
my conscience is clear
we can never be friends
our communicate does not translate into that
not even for a second, I want to be with you
nothing will come out of it if we get together
this is no lab
I will not write a note

"the wrinkles on the potato skin
cannot detect the sick relationship
why are you trying to find bones, then?"

half a moon

Supermoon 2013, Julio Cortez, AP 

after climbing that summit
it is impossible to descend
but the voices are asking me to risk it
I might give in to pressure
nothing happens without any smoke
I do not  scare easily from the demons within my head
even if my belly heaves with tension

"I will carry that torch for you
many Supermoons may come and go"

A Solitary Reaper Retold

I toil in the meadow
a solitary figure
in that lane
I walk miles
not fearing the wild bear
which comes from that other side of bridge
what it is looking for I wouldn't know
that bear is as lonely as I am
I may seem fragile and unstable
but I have enough insight to survive
I will rest on a rock for a while
before I retreat to my island of peace
that bend you see is what I am seeking
in no time I will fly away like fallen bird
he knows his place is the sky

"the clouds will touch my feet in no time
persuading me to go with them"

hubris

Stanley Kubrick for Look Magazine, 1949 

complex edge takes me away from the beaten tracks
we have become still pictures in this forest of feelings
my lie has grown so pale
answers are not needed now
you will throw the files
I will light that gas with this lighter
burning all the invisible mess

"still I need a class or two to unlearn you
but in the vintage mode"

escaping from banality

The Promenade, 1918, by Marc Chagall 

don't you dare giggle
she is not flying
it is just a crazy illusion
her chattering teeth shatters the silence
I will scoop some moonshine
that will wake her up
she escaped from her home
a cave of a home
such a banal life
she thinks she cut all ties
just a wrinkle you see here
all will be normal
I will do anything to make her stay

"she will make banana splits
that will be our meal for supper"

universe will not hand it over to you

you need to escape from your solitude

let your shimmering emotions spill into the curb

let your steps direct you towards the yard

watch the thundering jets

the spewing hatred within yourself

needs to be dashed to the ground

let the rain wash it away

changing your status and stature

you can go and rest on that park bench

watch that door being knocked

you have to grab your due from the universe

no one else will be there for you 

"the patterns are not you yet you are the pattern
goodbye is so final but the universe decides for you"

dance of life

Waking, Walking, Singing, in the Next Dimension? 1979 by Morris Graves 

each one of us swirl with the wind-
limbs move with nimble grace.
in the train of thoughts;
no myth can exist in the prairie-
you see a vault
but for us it is a space that never ends.
your throat may choke with emotional rapture of our beauteous dance,
we may crave for a trick 
that will takes us to halls of fame.

"in the spirals of life, these is no beginning, nor is there an end"

gravity rolls around defying physics

Lighthouse Dandelions by Jamie Wyeth 

in the bleak darkness dandelions seem so nebulous
the clouds hover to take away the light
such a vision for someone who is watching from up above

opaque sun is blazing over that mindless thought
lighthouse is not cut out for cheery vegetation
such a perfect timing for the ship to approach

particles hover only to crush the spirit
torch is useless to dig out the weeds underneath the slab
why do I waste my breath over it all?

random flow of the matter within the mind
may not be popular with the crowd
but the lined cloud's moves make it up for a wonderful visual

"open the windows, let the gravity move in"

chants fill the mind rolling down to the heart

Old Couple: photo by Togan Gokbakar 

do they wish to rekindle 
to get that spark back
to get back to that vow made long ago
life now is such a drone
chants are circling around them like a halo

the blinding sun is also binding
they hide in that cave
they do not hold hold hands
but the fist in the crook of her hand
fills all the space in his heart

he knows he cannot be broken 
as long as she is there
he stares at us expressionlessly
challenging us silently
I retreat, let them be

"the music will play on and on for them both, 
as long as they have each other"

ocean within the mind

as if eternally etched there, constant is but
moving around, breaking into serrated edges
of the brain, vastness of those thoughts just

about turn around, hitting at the wedges
of time already passed, nonetheless effect
the convoluted shells in the mind’s ledge-

each crevice fills leaving no space. reflects
of the cogitation left behind, still have power
to mar. conquering the mind does not affect

the spirit, as untamed as it can be, towers
over, looking down with disdain at weakness
of consciousness. bottomless psyche showers

more of intellect, energizing the body. bleakness
disappears, like anything dropped into the ocean
is accepted, returned in some other way, uniqueness

retained yet different. slightest of change within, 
understanding with wisdom to be calmly serene. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was a pleasure to write a terza rima after a VERY long time.....

I would rather pick the clouds

Young Woman Picking the Fruit of Knowledge, 1892 by Mary Cassatt

I have to decipher 
the thousands of messages 
hidden in the thunderous clouds

no window dressing 
can hide from me 
the soup of knowledge

I have to be in the front 
when the clouds spit it all out 
pulsing with their importance 

I plan to turn on all my charm 
and collect it all in a red dish

"such fuzzy words evoke no feelings

or do they?"

Only a small party

illustration by Helen Ward 

so transparent
those expressions on their thin faces
joyous now but harrowing a while back

it is so rare to see a newborn in their midst
it hit their marrows hard
no one ever made a guess
they would see such a day
now that they saw it
they want the grubs either in a soil
or in their heart deeply embedded forever
let me borrow the right sentiment
so that I can march towards them
and take an oath for their safety

yes, they will resist interference
but I will make sure that the resistant is liquid
where I will fry munchies for the grand party