2016

A non-swimmer in the shallow

Envious as you ripple through

Grey green waves, emerging

At the other end.

You remember her as someone full of life.
Two years. That's your memory of her.
Three words.

Full of life.

The words shrivel.
Fruit estranged from tree
On a hot day.

Notes

We are a tired bunch, caught in this habit of being bored and lazy all the time. We are the same everyday. Nothing new happens. Because our prides have been by hurt by better people and countless self-realisations. And so, we exist, incapable of being surprised, shocked, touched, inspired by anything as our innards are clogged with our sad, hurt, self-loathing, foolish prides.

Of Blue Eggs

Angry working men

take their cars out in the morning.

Imagine the noise.

Silenced we speak quietly

just for the two of us.

Yet things unsaid are more often

remembered.

As the poet sings of blue eggs

your ashen body, moist

from the night burning,

haunts the green penumbra

of my single room.

Of Centipedes

After a little more than a year, I'm writing here again and I hate to admit that it was a centipede in my bathroom that catapulted me to the act. Strangely, I have been trying to defeat a virtual centipede too - but that one controls lightning - in a game called Ys: The Origin. I wonder if there is any ominous connection between the two myriapods.

The centipedes have caused me to think, or rather they have distilled my amorphous thought, that I have to make substantial changes in my life - myriad changes (as in myriapod!). Firstly, I must write more often - It is a shame that I haven't documented to understand better so many important events in the past year. Secondly, I must move out of this house quickly. And thirdly, I have to make changes in my social person.

I will jump to the third immediately. Lately, I have begun to painfully realise that my social skills aren't the best. Sure, I can be very charming in brief interactions but when it comes to prolonged exchange of words and social courtesies, I become a nervous wreck who just doesn't know what to say to people and wants simply to disappear. I fear that this is some kind of chronic disintegration of my social person due to some personal history - I need one of those 'life changing experiences' or complete amnesia.

I have begun to realise that this social handicap is proving to be a hindrance not only in my career (If only I could just get up with my brilliant ideas to the man and show him what I could do! I'd love to tell him that I think his ideas are crap and that I'm not always on Facebook doing insignificant work) but also in my relationships with my friends and any potential lovers. I realise that I should either learn to better my social skills or completely abandon them for the rest of my life and spend all my days hidden in a burrow. Although the latter does seem more attractive, I don't think that with today's population it would be a convenient choice. Firstly, I wouldn't be able to find such solitude and secondly, even if I did, they'd dig me up right back to the surface and I'd have to say 'Thank You' and other nice things and go back to leading a 'normal', 'happy' life.

Also my room is a mess, I have stopped caring about the way I look - in fact, I seem to have stopped caring about anything. I eat just about anything and sometimes nothing at all. I'm too inured to even complain. All I want is a long holiday, but I am too tired to make any preparations for the same.

I guess the centipede that appeared in my bathroom at 3.30 am in the morning is trying to tell me something. Of course I went death white when I saw it, and had to flush it down the toilet because I hate to hear the sound of cracking exoskeleton. But yes, I don't think it's healthy to willingly lock myself in my tiny apartment for 2 whole days without interacting with any living soul. I simply speak to myself -unknowingly at times - and save kingdoms and goddesses, slay dragons and shop swords and armors. Strangely, it isn't loneliness I fear as much as the outside world.

MALLI

Do you remember the rusting railing

We used to lean upon

As the western sky

Dissolved in burning gold

While the rest was spread out in darkness?

We leaned upon the railing,

That the cement seemed unable to hold,

Looking at cars,

Some with two headlights,

The others half blind,

Creating a game then and there

Of guessing which one was father’s.

The cars were just travelling funneled lights.

Were we waiting for him

Or for the sweets he brought?

Of course he would always say

He forgot to bring them

And then after taking his pleasure

From our quiet disappointments

He would reveal the surprise

And we would love him again.

I like to think you won those games.

I don’t remember the face I saw

Last year. Your straight hair

And sudden pouts are always

A surprise to me.

I cannot erase

Your laughing child’s eyes

And brown curly hair

That we used to make fun of.

Sometimes I regret

And wonder if I am the reason

For the loss of those curls,

The brown’s blackening,

The sudden denial to play.

I remember your funny monkey dance

That you mastered

Every time we sang in gibberish.

When you started growing up

Mother said the dance became vulgar.

Growing up has been painful for us.

I would like to meet again

The sad snowman we made together

From the little snow

That winter. He disappeared overnight.

Life was so short.

I don’t remember if it was you or I

Who shouted for me or you

When it started snowing.

As we looked up

Snow was the color of sky

And on our gloves

Snow and rain.

It was a disappointment really

But we have lied to ourselves

To have our house covered in snow.

That winter I realised that snowballs hurt.

I still remember the bright green

Of your frock

And its shiny smoothness.

Was it your favorite?

Because I saw it last night

Twirling and twirling

Against the haziness of memory

Worn by a little girl’s silhouette

That was yours once

Twirling and twirling against the haziness of memory.

So Absurd My Dream

...and the president of the world announced, "The new Global Library Headquarters is Bangladesh".

It is raining in Bangladesh now. The minister of the Global Library Affairs looks out through the glass windows at the flooding Sunderbans. 

The 4 and the 5

Lay us on the operating table.
Take a scalpel
and make a neat incision.
Open the cut wide
and wider,
till it becomes a wound,
till you map all
our veins, arteries and feelings.
Rationalise our irrationalities.
Notice the heart beat quicken
and slow down,
'Without reason', you might say.
And in your careful patience and precision
the heart might stop altogether
and with it all this world.
And our lingering selves
scatter,
like the flutter of birds
after a gunshot,
groping for redemption.
But you'll still be there
Under the blinding light -
a silhouette of dreams
and of fears -
contemplating,
with a detached air,
the general nature of death.

Yamini:  i dont like that pillow case top

me:  oh no?

well i like her total persona

it's not just the clothes she's wearing

it's a certain elegance blending with a certain roughness

it's a morning shot

Yamini:  true that

me:  a hurried attempt at beauty

...

Yamini:  You are a knife and I am a spool of soft pink yarn

me:  basically you're sheep and i'm the razor that leaves you naked

Yamini:  you are the butcher

that

slits my throat

kris is the razor that leaves me naked and alone in the cold

while he is warm with my wool -- my love

Sleeping Together

As you lay asleep
and awake
to my carelessly careful
groping in the dark,
I journeyed
across your body
in search of your heart.

When at last
my palm felt the deep tremor
of life,
I could not distinguish
your heartbeat
from the nervous throbbings
of my own desires.

Of Words

I decided that we would talk. Talk about anything at all, rather than just sit and get lost in the music, in our thoughts, in ourselves. It would be a change. A change most wanted to make us feel that we had moved from we were – an affirmation that we have been moving, we have grown. As elusive it might be, some kind of sign, symbol or affectation is always required to tell us that yes, we are no longer the same. Yes, the world has changed and with it, we have too. And the world will accept us only if we move with it or else, we become ruins.

So, this need to talk plummeted me to say just anything at all. And in that intoxication, I asked an absurd question, ‘Drowning or burning alive?’ Of course, there is no answer to this because we have no choice. But for a moment, we were to excuse all absurdities and imagine them to be real. We were to imagine that we have choice. Somewhere in the background lingered music, inspired by the crimson flight of flamingoes. Little, had I realized till then the searing gap between him and me – made palpable now with my words, my indifference and our incoherence. And between words said, there were vast sentences that should have been said. Sentences that bridge lovers. Strange, that which so unites two people now proves to be inefficient. It failed again – language. Somehow, I was pleased by the limitation of this construct.

gross!

At yam's. again. exchanging lives online - she says get off facebook and get on life. verbose excretion.

talking of excretions, this night yam's had access to the most intimate detail of my existence - an opportunity came her way - an opportunity that hasn't been available to lovers. Only Navs had been subjected to such mishaps. but this night Yam's too was subjected to the same. However, this time the culprit wasn't my forgetfulness.

No water. And even with this realisation, my biology could not control it's processes. So I rushed to the toilet. The rest need not be stated.

I used drinking water but then how much of it can I use to flush down the evidence of my physical reality? Vestiges of my insides remained afloat and Yams saw them to her horror - which would, of course, inspire her to waste another 15 minutes talking.

However, all said and done, all secrets revealed, I guess this was the last step to our fondness for each other. The last step towards our knowing each other - inside out. She now has access to the most embarrassing and most intimate fact about me - that I too crap.

And it's true you know, you can romanticise anything! Perhaps, only because, everything is beautiful! 

Of this one day

I had the privilege of stepping into a dream.

Woke up at Yam's house again. It's comforting to wake up after her - to know that she's walking around the house, stepping into the kitchen and making coffee. It's not just the coffee but the idea of someone being there and being completely at ease with that someone, even when you wake up ugly with swollen eyes and bad breath.

Went to Qahwa after much dillydallying , for Nav's sake and ours. It is a rare pleasure to catch a glimpse of him smile as he watches the petite waitress strutting around, with such pure love.

And then, to capture moments with Yam's camera that doesn't zoom in or out - but it makes it all the more special to capture them in that unchangeable limitation. And even though we pose for each shot with lightning fast reflexes, I think they're still spontaneous. I think that quickness is our nature - to look at life in the eye when it appears. This is not to say that the camera defines us - no. But I don't have to explain what I mean - it would only diminish everything I would want to say. And besides, I don't have the words.

Then we trailed off to Select City to look for earphones, hats and toys! My shoes were killing me but I didn't complain - physical pain didn't compare to the joy my soul experienced.

And then, we stood in front of a toy store for some 10 - 15 minutes to decide on the next activity.

We went to Dilli Haat where Yam's order was the star. Rajasthani thali - understated and homely - sensuously consumed by hands. Then, she wanted some silver and beauty defeated all practicality.

Came back to her place again and chatted with Ayms. It's great - my discovery of skype! I melted into love. And love was the only thing I experienced - for him, for myself, for Yams, for Navin, for the whole universe.

And dinner at a small charming bengali restaurant - fish, rice and mishti doi.

Came back to Yam's - she said it was nice to have me around. What do you say to that? I just did an awww but meant so much more.

It'll be nice to move in here - to spend the evenings together in hope and despair till 3 in the morning. To talk about inane things. To keep plants and a strand of rajnigandha on the table every night. To cook together and to discuss life to endlessness. And most importantly, to feel love everyday.

the politics of standing up!

at my new office, I write about sarees, ornaments, shirts and suits. It's alright, in the sense, that it numbs me. No inspiration required, no thinking. It is most spontaneous - where I am and am not.

today however the first problematic rose in that new space. I was writing about some earring or necklace, free of judgement and describing it blissfully bereft of passion, completely detached from the whole affair. I was so out of it that I was so absorbed. Does it make sense? Anyway I was writing, oblivious to everything else including the projector where they were projecting THE match which would lead to the strengthening of patriotism for most or to distasteful slandering of the players, when suddenly everyone around me started getting up. They were playing the national anthem on the screen. I told myself I don't have to get up, don't get up - don't be a hypocrite. But you know, no matter how much your visceral ideologies deny it, your skin gives in to the pressure. And I got up reluctantly, my insides rebelling against my actions. There was no truce.

But I fit in.

Of Salvia

I happened to find a poem today

by a poet whose name arose,

like a flower pressed, red,
between the pages

of a book read

long ago.

(At the approach of winter,

we talked

nearing the end.)

As he spoke of the salvia,

My mind rushed for that stark red;

through clogged pipes and sewers

My hands expanded

turned and twisted

removing hair, semen,

faces, fear and desire.

There in the winding depths

it stood, aflame, bleeding,

a precise wound

cut open with love

and thus untreated.

Of Phoolgbhi ko Sabji

I cooked for the first time last night. Well, I can't take all the credit - actually not much of it - since Yams did most of the work. But I inspired her, and called mother for the recipe - and that is sufficient! Of course, I grated the tomatoes, the garlic and the ginger and occasionally gave the fluttering hag some words which she chewed upon - to no real consequence of course, but it did at times pacify her. And this is a big deal!

So, with grated tomatoes and all that, and large chunks of cauliflower we were ready to cook nepali food in a south indian household. On a large frying pan, we cooked for two people. Perhaps, it was because of the pan or my alienation from my nepali roots and eating habits, or perhaps the overwhelming south indianness of things, the phoolgobhi ko sabji took hours to cook! In the span of that hour, mails were received, sent, read and reread and lines, words and sentences exploded in the room - these explosions were far more luminous (and disturbing) than the ones flaring up in the skies to celebrate (again) india's victory... the same story that cannot be summarised because you have to watch the match for 8 - 10 hours and because magazines call it a holiday so that all the employees are kept happy - some sort of diabolical compensation!

several cups of water softened the hard cauliflower - (note: this is a metaphor). and we ate - rice, dal and phoolgobhi ko sabji with our hands, as Yams is of the opinion that it is a sensuous experience. And sensuously, we were full like bitches.

The rest of the night was spent in fluttering, between verbosity and silence, hope and despair - same thing! - holding life by the collar and displaying it on facebook - so that the night would pass.

and it did!

lovebirds

I remember the two,
While the two of us
On one tiny bed,
Squeaking with every small thrust,
Lay half asleep
From night’s sleeplessness.
They were looking to nest,
As the summer heat
Had found its way down
Into their loins,
And wanted to house
Their union.

Notes on Suffering. (December 2009)

The Escapee

If I had to answer the question, “What has been the main agenda of my life?” then I would simply say, “Escaping life”. Following which I would immediately be confronted with a why.  I know that ‘why’ is the most difficult and destabilizing of questions, the answers to which have never been truly satisfying till today (and perhaps never will be). Yet one goes on looking for answers to that fundamental ‘why’ of things, and gives answers with an implicit knowledge that those answers are unsatisfactory and will be replaced by another in the future.

Escaping life.

This agenda of my life is mainly because of that fundamental question. Escaping life is, in a way, a final answer, a putting down of the foot, a metaphorical dead-end to that ontological question. To escape would mean that one is no longer interested, that one is completely saturated and no longer cares for answers (at least within that given structure). By escaping one is not looking for or providing answers; one is simply tired and must get out or else will die of suffocation or worse, boredom. At the same time, when one escapes, one leaves a comment as a trail for those willing to follow. Those who understand the comment and decide to follow understand the plight of the escapee. They also understand the utter meaninglessness of the prison from which he escapes…

PHOTOGRAPHING ABSENCE

“It was an intense experience. We were there for six months everyday, except on Sundays and during the university holidays. So, our relationship with the space developed over time,” Madhuban tells me on the telephone, as she talks about the exhibition Through a Lens, Darkly, being displayed at PHOTOINK since December. Madhuban Mitra and Manas Bhattacharya had been invited by the Department of Film Studies, Jadavpur University, to the (earlier) National Instruments Ltd. in June 2010. The National Instruments Ltd. was the first and only still camera factory. The 1980s saw the company dissolving its workforce as it was declared a sick industry. Eventually, it handed itself over to the Jadavpur University in January 2009. The place now lies in ruins waiting to be converted into the new university campus. By the end of November, their visit was to result in a collection of photographs.

As they entered the premises of the factory, they were immediately struck by startling and moving images of what had been: A huge cardboard replica of a camera at the foyer of the building; in the ‘machine room’, they found a shirt hanging in the middle of the space as if someone had left it there but never quite came back for it. Madhuban adds, “People knew that they were leaving but had left their things behind; everywhere there were traces and marks of things left behind.”

What the photographs depict, capturing inanimate objects, is an absence that is eerie and suggestive of the presence of workers in those spaces in the past. Of the series, ‘The Archaeology of Silence’, the duo set out to look at the history of labour, “that comes into view”, Madhuban explains, “through these inanimate objects which lets us imagine the people rather than their presence. The photographs become insights into the people through the traces they’ve left behind. In most industrial spaces, the workers are very anonymous.”

The duo decided to do the project with a digital camera and this is interesting as they look at a certain history of photographs through photographs. Madhuban adds, “It becomes ironic because we are looking at the analogue through a digital camera which, in a way, suggests that the digital camera has taken over the analogue camera. And this is poignant.”

Apart from the photographs, the exhibition also comprises several photo-animations, which the photographers felt would help in showing and explaining better the abandoned plight of the factory. “We didn’t go in thinking that we would be doing the animations,” Madhuban says, “Although it’s a dead space, in terms of the absence of people and production, there were slight movements and changes caused by the wind and the light.” The animations explore the liminal space between the still and the moving image.

In a way, the exhibition is a documentary of a certain history of Indian photography in India. “But it goes beyond that”, Madhuban insists, “If it had just been a documentary we wouldn’t have done the photo animations. It is also about entering into that space and time. Along with the documentation, there is also an interpretation of what one sees.” Madhuban and Manas have tried to depict the factory and its ruins in an objective manner. “Most of the colours you see in the photographs are the way we found it. We didn’t make use of any artificial light. We didn’t move things around; the organisation of objects was already so dramatic, so solemn.”

The title has been derived from the biblical phrase, ‘Through a glass, darkly’, which refers to the vague human understanding of god which is clear only after death. Although, the exhibition does not make any religious references, the title serves the purpose. As Madhuban says, “Through a camera, we are looking at the ruins of a camera factory.”

(Through a Lens, Darkly, was on view at PHOTOINK, till February 12.)

Virginia

When you pressed your head

to the ground

thick with the falling of leaves,

the mourning of roses,

yellow as if

unmindful of the hours,

you stared death in the eye

searching in sad depths

of the sparrow’s eyes

and in its eyes

your reflection.

Mother knits a sweater

Mother knits a sweater
For daughter
But the mall has cashmere.

The spider spins a web
For insects
By the open window.

- june 2008

Bodhgaya

On those fields,

Now distant fields,

Of green and meandering veins

Following footsteps of Buddha,

Differently coloured, shaped

Beads of men and women

Tied to a string of a story

Across a horizon of monasteries,

In that moment

Walked silently,

Leading once and following often

Between sudden bursts

Of conversation and laughter,

To see a red butterfly

Floating

Into a blue grey wind

Of winter.

Of Writing.

What we write is never the truth even if the intention has been honest. What we write is about recollecting the past (even when we think we write about the future) and the past is that which is lost forever. All we can do is replace that which is lost. But this should not deter us from the practice. In fact it should encourage us. What we write is the creation of a new object. That object will be far from truth because the truth is unavailable. We cannot claim it neither can we understand it. We are incapable. This incapability might be defeating to some and to some, empowering. I speak to and for the latter. What we write creates meaning in a world where meaning is elusive. What we write is a boat we make to not only save ourselves from drowning or keep afloat but it is also a means of travel. What we write is the creation of our journeys. And then depending on the intention, the magnitude and quality of it, we can rewrite that boat to make it a ship or a plane. Or we can simply choose to sprout wings. And then when one is tired of movement, one can write a paragraph, a story or a great book about rest, to find rest. Writing is about creating illusions. And in a world where absolute meaning, absolute knowledge is denied even to the gods, illusions are more real.

Of Generosity.

At office. No one from my department has come except me. I do like the solitude that is the consequence of their absence and yet I feel this is all unfair. I feel I would like to be home or somewhere else. But then, I'm plagued by the thought of having nothing to do there. And yet, I do not feel I have done anything worthwhile today.

I am completely broke, 'am penniless. I don't even have money to buy lunch and to avoid any embarrassment, I tell my friends that I do not wish to order. Hunger gnaws at the insides of my stomach. S offered me his lunch this afternoon - rice, cooked in butter and carefully chosen spices. The smell of it wafted with such allurement that I could not refuse. And with gratitude I ate.

When he offered to share his lunch with me, I was suddenly overcome with embarrassment. S pitied me - of course, not with condescension but with genuine concern. Although one would have to brush off the almost nonchalant gesture with which he offered, to see that concern. Yes, I was embarrassed and I wanted to refuse like a once-sufficient man whose pride has been hurt by such goodwill and genuine compassion. And yet, a part of me was overwhelmed by this generosity and kindness. And I, at once, felt myself melt in the warmth of such an offering. And that part of me came forward and gladly accepted the offer to share the meal. My body overcame my mind.

Such small, unexpected happiness makes it all worthwhile - it makes life that much easier. These are things we don't remember at the end of our years but it is only these things that bring us to the end of our years. They move us and give us hope to go on further. They give us the strength to overcome great sadness and the courage to say, "It's alright".

But I must be careful - I must consider such moments of generosity and goodwill as sources of energy which refuel me and not make the mistake of seeking complete refuge in them. Else, I will only long for such moments in complete passivity and spend my life in waiting.

...

He entered with sun laden hair, this creature, a god perhaps from a distant mythology to change mine. He entered like a golden spear of the golden sun piercing the bark of my skin to reveal a warm softness, once familiar. And I strained my eyes to defend myself against this luminous happening to take it slowly step by step. Light by light. And this constriction etched on my pale face, this tremor on my ageing stillness, he understood it as contemplation contemplating surrender. Although it was cumbersome, this alien light in my anesthetic dark, his charm was such that I was a moth given wings whose flight is meaningful only when death is certain in the scorching blindness of a flame. He entered with his stories to fill the hollow of my solitude to reveal my indigence concealed in the dark. He lived by me borrowing my sceptre, ruling the vacuous longing of my beings. He walked about lifting grains of sand, long settled, and when he wished plunged into the stillness of my lake that had not know a ripple since I can remember And with his body, sculpted with an old man's hands and years, he raised storms from its depths.

But upon the third waning of the moon, the great silver bird roared in the heavens beckoning his return. And he left. How could I, a creature of the dark, love the light? And yet I did, allowing him to enter the mouth of my cave, allowing him to plunder my quiet.

And now even solitude is unfamiliar.

In the depths of the lake, he came to give birth to a monster that now surfaces from the waters in search of its father. It escapes into the light, but it is a monster. Its home is in the dark with me. And so, the creatures of light will hunt him down and I shall be in mourning.

resilience through art

A girl, with an infectious vivacity and a demeanour that makes others happy, walks to and fro on the streets of Connaught Place, just outside People Tree. I meet her, Pankhuri, the one behind the T-shirt movement. And I am quickly taken in by her enthusiasm, her abundant willingness to ‘share’, by her generosity. (She even bought me an iced tea!) We sit inside a neighbouring café, and over sips of coffee she talks about her ‘resilience through art’.

Pankhuri recently came back from a trip to Leh, where she had conducted four workshops with the children in the relief camps and with little monks from a neighbouring monastery. She had had to postpone all her arrangements due to the devastating cloud burst in the region. Earlier, she had planned to work in other places, but then she could not avoid working in the relief camps. But, she tells me, it was an 'enriching' experience. She takes out her laptop and shows me some pictures of the children and their own little t-shirt paintings while narrating the stories behind them. She tells me about one such story with genuine amazement, “This little boy drew a dragon on his T-shirt. I asked him why he did so and he said that a dragon had taken away his house. And then he made a house on the back of the dragon.”

 

Although she largely works with children, her T-shirt painting exercises are not only restricted to children. She has worked with adults too. She says, with a hint of mischief, “I actually work with the child within each one of us”. And one will understand how if one meets her. Her carefree, comforting presence and her charming ‘Peace and Trees’, when she signs out, would put anyone at ease. She has been painting T-shirts and conducting the ‘resilience through art’ workshops for the last two years, at various schools and colleges, in parks, in the Trimurti Bhavan, etc. And she does this mostly on her own. “I usually create my own projects. But sometimes I work with different groups and NGOs. If anything seems interesting, I do it. Or else, I am constantly thinking about new and different ideas and projects I could build on.”

She tells me about an upcoming exhibition. And I can sense her excitement although she hasn’t decided on the dates and the venue (she does say that she’ll probably put up the works hanging on a tree) as she is at present busy participating in a theatre workshop because “I need to learn more. I don’t want to stay in one place, you know. I don’t want to limit myself with just one thing. So I keep on learning… I learn and then I share. I learn and I share.”

Pankhuri in Leh, after the cloud burst

I ask her to talk about that one special T-shirt she painted. After much hesitation to talk just about one because it would mean that she would have to choose from so many, she did tell me about this T-shirt currently available at People Tree. “It’s basically based on the principles of Abdul Gaffar Khan, peace-leader from Afghanistan. His main principles were faith, right conduct and love. And he created an army of non-violent people, called the Khudai Khidmatgar. So I made this T-shirt based on my imagination of what a Khudai Khidmatgar would wear. And it’s become one of my favourites.” And when I asked if anyone had bought it, she laughed and said, “Well people try it and take photographs of it, but they don’t buy it. I think because it’s expensive in the shop which is selling it.” After a thoughtful pause, she says, “Maybe, it’ just meant to be there.”

By profession, Pankhuri is a wildlife expert. However, slowly, she chooses to move more towards art. And she has found her own way to mix art and ecology. Her T-shirt paintings and her workshops all carry simple messages of “honesty, humility and inter-connectedness.” Apart from painting on T-shirts, she also does jewellery, journals and diaries. In her blog, she says that she uses “natural, used, discarded, forgotten, everyday materials to fashion them into attractive, honest and unique pieces. After all, the laws of nature have been made to be respected, so I take only what I really need.” 

rain

                                                                                                   - 2008

untitled

in that quiet 
the lotus raises its head 
to see the filth surround its velvet hem; 

crowned 
she is now a queen 
beautiful, loved and frightening - 
a monster that feeds on filth 
to sustain her delicate white, 

soft petals 
conceal wanton organs 
awaiting the sting of a lost insect 

drunk 
with lingering scent 
poisonous, pure and perfumed, 
scent of juice for quenching thirst 
of the insect – tired, searching, 

slimy frog 
squats on the velvet hem 
awaiting the insect lured by the bait. 
                                                 -2008