Sunday, November 24, 2013

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"

Sunday, November 17, 2013

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."

Sunday, November 10, 2013

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"

Sunday, November 03, 2013

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?"