Saturday, November 17, 2012

Flower In Ruins

she loved the yellow flowers,
not the least cognizant of the ruins
(or the cracks that their roots called home)
and why should they be
they bloom, as always! 

- Neha

Sunday, November 04, 2012

Turning World

Acrobatic Dancer by Henri Matisse

At the still point of the turning world.
Neither flesh nor fleshless;
Neither from nor towards;
at the still point, there the dance is,
But neither arrest nor movement.
And do not call it fixity,
Where past and future are gathered.
Neither movement from nor towards,
Neither ascent nor decline.
Except for the point, the still point,
There would be no dance,
and there is only the dance.

- T. S. Eliot

Friday, November 02, 2012

Why I Am Not a Painter

Sardines by Michael Goldberg

I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,
for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
“Sit down and have a drink” he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. “You have SARDINES in it.”
“Yes, it needed something there.”
“Oh.” I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. “Where’s SARDINES?”
All that’s left is just
letters, “It was too much,” Mike says.

But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven’t mentioned
orange yet. It’s twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike’s painting, called SARDINES.

- Frank O’Hara

Much Love

This Is the Color of My Dreams by Joan Miró
Something was holding them back
To the naive eye, it was a fear of water
To the knowing eye, it was a love of water
Too much love at that (a silent tsunami kind of love)
Like a thunderstorm that opens up the mighty skys

For (maybe, just maybe) they (unknowingly) feared
that the waves will sweep them away
To an endless unseen sea of too much love
Too much love that goes twenty thousand leagues under the sea
(only to see that there is an enchanted sea under the sea)
Too much love where the brim is just the beginning

And how does one survive too much of anything,
leave alone too much of love?

So they left the greeting at that :
With much love,

- Neha

Thursday, November 01, 2012

An Accident

A look met a moment met an eternity
The moment met a crash met the time 
frozen in the precipice of her misty mind  

- Neha