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"

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"

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....

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"