Thursday, August 30, 2012


Opening heart by Neha
She lived for the gasp
The colorful gasp
The tiny gasp
The gravity defying gasp

The gasp that came as a stranger
looked at the colors she had splashed
( colors that came out of her
own eternal gasp )
The gasp that made a second seem
like a very v e r y  v   e   r   y long time
The gasp that made his eyes open
The gasp that made his heart expand,
The gasp that made him feel as if he
had found the secret of being ( to be)
If only for that fraction
of a timeless moment
The gasp as his mouth opened -
"Aah - the colors!", he said.

She lived for the gasp
Happiness in time capsule
of a colorful gasp

- Neha

Saturday, August 25, 2012

Fire and Water

Abstract by Oskar Fischinger 
How do you burn this fire?
With water!

- Neha

Friday, August 24, 2012

Whoever you are

Whirling dervishes by Alison Wiklund

Come, come, whoever you are,
Wanderer, idolater, worshiper of fire,
Come even though you have broken your vows a thousand times,
Come, and come yet again.
Ours is not a caravan of despair.

- Rumi

Thursday, August 23, 2012

Greener Inside

Long grass with butterflies by Vincent Van Gogh 
Not on the fence
Not on the other side
Not on this side either
The grass is greener inside
And this inside is what needs
nurturing -
A little rain
A little sun
A little air
And a handful of earth
So don't look for sides
Look inside

- Neha

Wednesday, August 22, 2012


Perpetual Ocean by NASA

           in the wanting
  in the waning
          in the waiting
This wave.
Wanting, waiting, waning

- Neha

Thursday, August 16, 2012


La Tristesse du roi (Sorrows of the King) by Henri Matisse
ratio et prudentia curas, non locus effusi late maris arbiter, aufert.
[ It is reason and wisdom which take away cares, not places affording wide views over the sea ] 

- Horace, Epistles, I, xi, 25-6  

He ran all his life
        away from his deepest fear
The more he ran, the more it came closer

Till he learnt that
   this chase was not the answer
       or perhaps it was,
only, in the opposite direction
- not away from his fear, but towards it

For running away makes the grey cloud
consume the whole sky,
It is in moving towards and embracing,
that the whole sky begins to shine,
no matter the time,
day or night

- Neha


The Circus by Henri Matisse  

Your question to my question,
A nice answer,
Isn't it?

- Neha, For R

Tuesday, August 14, 2012


“I think books should have secrets, like people do. I think they should be there as a bonus for the sensitive reader or there as a kind of subliminal quavering. I don’t think that the duty of the twentieth-century fiction writer is to retell old stories only.”

—John Updike

Saturday, August 11, 2012


            Fingerprints by yoghaert

Everyone we meet in life
leaves their fingerprints on us
Some on our heart
Some on our mind
Some on our body
Some just about everywhere

Some fingerprints fade with time
Some become stronger
Some are marked in an invisible ink
that comes to life when a memory washes over
Some are as straight as a line gets
Some circular like the mother of all circles
Some like a drunken ecstasy -
one part lost, one part simply don't care for loss or lost

Some fingerprints are divine accidents
Some just scars from head on collisions
that should have never happened
Some are in between that bridge of
destiny and the audacity of living a
life on our own terms
Some a legacy from our past
Some just hand me downs with
hidden stories waiting to be found

She looks at all the fingerprints
as a faint memory washes over
And then another, and then another
Fingersprints of a strong current rising from the
bottom of an ocean bed as she roles over

- Neha

Wednesday, August 08, 2012

Fresh Laundry

A Pork-Butchers Shop Seen from a Window by Vincent Van Gogh
Sometimes you don't even realize
how much the room stinks
till you open the windows
and let fresh air in
or if someone smelling
good, I mean real real good -
like fresh laundry, walks in
or if someone simply puts the
room freshener because
he or she is too polite to say it basically stinks
Its as if you were living with
a white noise and someone came
and just put the white noise switch off
and then there is the joy of pure silence.
Pure silence that has been here all along

There is fragrance now
Life is the sweet smell of morning grass
and you wonder
how you ever lived
without this fragrance in your life,
you wonder if that before counts

Its a new time now
time to throw the garbage
and open the windows
time for fresh laundry

- Neha

Requiem for a Friend

La Gerbe by Henri Matisee

For this is wrong, if anything is wrong:
not to enlarge the freedom of a love
with all the inner freedom one can summon.
We need, in love, to practice only this:
letting each other go. For holding on
comes easily; we do not need to learn it.

-from Requiem for a Friend, Rainer Maria Rilke


Two Dancers by Henri Matisse
He extended his right hand
She showed her back

He sang a gentle song
She thought it was a time for silence

till silence became a whispered song


She extended her right hand
He showed his back

She sang the song of a morning bird
He pretended he could listen nothing

He showed his back
She turned back

Two backs facing each other
Two faces looking east and west
Two songs and a shared silence
Amber fossil for her
Lost time for him

- Neha

The Coming Of Wisdom With Time

Paysage by Joan Miro

THOUGH leaves are many, the root is one;
Through all the lying days of my youth
I swayed my leaves and flowers in the sun;
Now I may wither into the truth.

- W. B. Yeats

Monday, August 06, 2012


Icarus by Henri Matisse
 And still -
    We burn

- Neha

Saturday, August 04, 2012

Life before death

The Garden by Joan Miro 
She asked if he believed in life after death
He said he believed in life. Life before death
"Before is all we have", he said 
"No one has come back from after, ever "

So then that's what she chose
Reincarnating herself in this life 
Choosing life before death
Choosing life

- Neha

Friday, August 03, 2012

चलो फिर से मुस्कुराएँ

Engraved by Neha
चलो फिर से मुस्कुराएँ 
चलो फिर से दिल जलाएं 

जो गुज़र गयी हैं रातें 
उन्हें फिर जगा के लायें 
जो बिसर गयीं हैं बातें 
उन्हें याद से बुलाएं 
चलो फिर से दिल जलाएं 
चलो फिर से मुस्कुराएँ 

किसी शह-नशी पे झलकी 
वो धनक किसी कबा की 
किसी रग की कसमसाई 
वो कसक किसी अदा की 
कोई हर्फे-बे-मुरब्बत 
किसी कुंजे-लब से फूटा 
वो झनक के शीशा-ए-दिल 
तहे-बाम फिर से टूटा 

ये मिलन की, नामिलन की 
ये लगन की और जलन की 
जो सही हैं वारदातें 
जो गुज़र गयी हैं रातें 

जो बिसर गई हैं बातें 
कोई उनकी धुन बनाएं 
कोई इनका गीत गाएँ
चलो फिर से मुस्कुराएँ 
चलो फिर से दिल जलाएं 

फैज़  अहमद  फैज़  

Word Key - शह-नशी : a higher place to sit, कबा : vest, हर्फे-बे-मुरब्बत : heartless, तहे-बाम : under the high tower 

Thursday, August 02, 2012

A Private Miracle

Ubu Roi VI by Joan Miro
Everything was right.
By design, of this they were sure.
It always had been (right).
It seemed like the fruit of an 
eternally compounded good karma,
While others struggled with empty
hands and wistful eyes looking at sky.
So they did the least could -
They lived a life praying endlessly
for a continued private miracle.

- Neha

Waiting for a Miracle

Hand Catching a Bird by Joan Miro
Nothing was right.
Not by design atleast.
It never had been (right).
So when it did (become right)
It seemed like a miracle -
Like a pigeon appearing 
from a magician's hat
So they did the best they could -
They waited for a miracle

- Neha

Failing and Flying

Bird in Space by Constantin Brancusi

Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew.
It's the same when love comes to an end,
or the marriage fails and people say
they knew it was a mistake, that everybody
said it would never work. That she was 
old enough to know better. But anything
worth doing is worth doing badly.
Like being there by that summer ocean
on the other side of the island while
love was fading out of her, the stars 
burning so extravagantly those nights that
anyone could tell you they would never last.
Every morning she was asleep in my bed
like a visitation, the gentleness in her
like antelope standing in the dawn mist.
Each afternoon I watched her coming back
through the hot stony field after swimming,
the sea light behind her and the huge sky
on the other side of that. Listened to her
while we ate lunch. How can they say 
the marriage failed? Like the people who
came back from Provence (when it was Provence)
and said it was pretty but the food was greasy.
I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell,
but just coming to the end of his triumph.

- Jack Gilbert

Notes: In Greek mythology, Icarus is the son of the master craftsman Daedalus. The main story told about Icarus is his attempt to escape from Crete by means of wings that his father constructed from feathers and wax. He ignored instructions not to fly too close to the sun, and the melting wax caused him to fall into the sea where he drowned. Read more here.

To His Coy Mistress

Resting Woman Wearing Tiara by Henri Matisse

Had we but world enough, and time,

This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love's day;
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood;
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow.
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear
Time's winged chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long preserv'd virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust.
The grave's a fine and private place,
But none I think do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may;
And now, like am'rous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour,
Than languish in his slow-chapp'd power.
Let us roll all our strength, and all
Our sweetness, up into one ball;
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life.
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run. 

- Andrew Marvell

Ode on Melancholy

The Old Tower in the Fields by Vincent Van Gogh

No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
       Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd
       By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
               Make not your rosary of yew-berries,
       Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be
               Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
A partner in your sorrow's mysteries;
       For shade to shade will come too drowsily,
               And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.

But when the melancholy fit shall fall
       Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
       And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
       Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
               Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
       Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
               And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.

She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die;
       And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
       Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
       Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
               Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
       Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;
His soul shalt taste the sadness of her might,
               And be among her cloudy trophies hung.

- John Keats 

1) In Classical Greek, the word Lethe literally means "oblivion", "forgetfulness", or "concealment". 
2) For a deeper understanding of the poem, read more here.


Bleu II by Joan Miro
Your hand became a rose
Rose became a memory
Memory became a promise
Promise of a hand
Hand with a rose

Your hand became a message
Message written on a paper napkin
Paper napkin passed under an open sky
Open sky unfolding into a dream
Dream of a hand
Hand with a message 

- Neha