How sweet these daisies.
How they thrust
their eager hungry faces
through the hot dank brier;
hot footed and tippy toes,
like children with
the pale orbs of their faces
turned towards that sun,
while the moon looks on;
all haughty curve
and mild disdain.
He fell in love with the red,
so different from the dull greens
and the browns.
Extraordinary poppy red.
He dreamt of a home across
its vivid cotton folds
and set upon his weaving
with his sticky feet
and his mullioned eyes.
A tinsel webbed constellation
across a red sky,
his blazing horizon.
But alas, for the rain.
It does not care for hearth
but pours violently where it will.
And so it did,
running his dreams into red rivulets
of anguish, of stranded hopes.
I saw him again the next day,
moving between the glistening greens
and the browns
with visions of red still dancing
in his heart,
making his way back, I am told,
to his blazing field of poppies.
What a din the rain makes. What a racket, as it falls unabashedly over rooftops, cement and tin alike. Plunging, splashing, bouncing, rickety, rackety as though it would drown the world and us along with it.
The pigeons and the crows have found shelter under tin roofs and awnings, nooks and crannies, where ever they can spread their wings and thrill the raindrops off their bruised and soaked feathers, cooing and cawing their complaints at the ceaseless rain.
Only the humans tarry on. Under the futile shelter of their umbrellas and cars, trains and buses, shaking the raindrops, that always manage to seep in, negligently off their skin and their attire. Soaked or miraculously dry, life does not stop for a wee bit of rain. There are places to go, jobs to do. Rain, though ceaseless, is almost an after thought.
Except when you sit at a window and gaze at it in awe. Then it is an entity to be reckoned with as it sprays through the window, every now and then, cool and refreshing. A source of life and much day dreaming.
Ah! There lies THE wall
with its mad scribbles that cannot be made out.
I have come to it at last.
The bricks look worn, chipped in places, raw,
where a multitude of heads must have paid their obeisance
brandishing hopes of a return gift.
The elixir of literary immortality.
I can see ink stains, the faint impression of a palm even,
made in desperation no doubt…
Looking for that break in its solidity,
in its sheer opaqueness,
for that weak spot that will make it crumble..
fall away like so much dust
I have been here for hours, weeks,
staring at its crumbling façade,
its sheer unbreakable-ness.
I have offered it my blood, the sweat of my brow,
the food from my mouth,
anything, anything to decipher the writing on that wall,
to watch it crumble and fall.
Anything, anything at all.
Morning wakes in silhouettes.
What life grows there
hidden from me..
between twitching ears
and blades of silage
limp with dew
puckered mouths nibble
on the sweetness of summer grass.
the soft crunching
the tender leaf
as it nibbles
I wrote a letter to a friend today.
It had roses on it.
The kind I would like to have
in my garden someday,
frothing pinkishly on trellises,
peeking with red flouncy eyes
through the windows of my bedroom.
Temptation leaning on the sill
making eyes at me.
In the letter I wrote her a poem,
not mine. But it reminded me
“As long as you are dancing, you can
break the rules.
Sometimes breaking the rules is just
extending the rules.
Sometimes there are no rules.”
And I see her dancing
as she always does,
with a paintbrush in her hand,
a smile trembling on her lips,
and music rolling off her hips.
Dancing, dancing deep into the night,
breaking all the rules.
I was about 12 when I first saw it. My grandmother, a renowned poet, always received varied gifts from people who loved her poetry. Bits and pieces of this and that. Feathers, book marks, pressed flowers…at least, that is how I remember it. They were all the more precious to her for their very simplicity. One such was a 3X2 ‘photo’ of Jesus Christ. It was an itty bitty little print. I had just returned from school and she held it out to me. I remember my heart squeezing painfully in my chest and silence beating heavily on my eardrums. I remember tears prickling my eyes and a deep, yawning hole opening somewhere deep inside me. I do not know why but it moved me deeply. In that moment, it felt as though my very soul were under siege. I asked her if I could keep it and she said of course. For a long time after that I carried it with me everywhere, tucked in the backpack I wore like second skin. But then years flew by like the pages of a book and I lost sight of that backpack and the photo along with it. But the sentiment remains. It has never quite gone away. It comes and it goes, washing over me like a tide when I least expect it.
Recently, I came across the book, ‘The Last Temptation of Christ’, by Nikos Kazantzakis. It has been an intense read and an eye opening one. That, along with the memory, inspired me to paint this….
Do let me know what you think?
The sun was at a slant. Evening, then night was fast approaching upon the heels of a lazy afternoon. Walking was thirsty work. It was time to hit the town.
Music, Food, Wine, Chatter…
The Main Street was bustling with people out for a good time. Some eateries had wide comfortable couches on the sidewalks with broad umbrellas. Cozy comfort. Sparkling wine, sizzling food, smiling faces adorned the sprawling tables.
There’s something about live music, isn’t there? It just adds a whole different feel to an evening. It lifts and elevates.
And just when I thought things couldn’t get any better, found this jewel of a bookstore on one of the side streets. I am sorry to say that I did not note down the name of the store but I spent a very happy hour browsing its musty, helter-skelter, knee high piles of bookly treasures.
And then, for the finale, a pizza and a pint at The Jolly Pumpkin.
And on that note ended our long glorious sojourn at Ann Arbor. Tally Ho, my lovelies!
A photographical glimpse. :)
The Tropical Garden.
The Cacti Garden.
The Bonsai Garden.
There were many many different plants along the walkways which weren’t in bloom yet and so I do not have any photographs of those. :(
The nature trails.
What groweth here? A shroom? A snail?
Very few things are as pleasurable and satisfying as walking bare feet in the grass. It was soft and moist under my feet. The stream gurgled along, prancing, singing, tinkling…gentle company to my rustling, lingering feet.
And this sweet creature, taking a moment to bask in the sunlight in his front yard.
He invited us in for a cuppa but we had to forego the immense pleasure for sheer lack of time. Tick tock!