Monday, March 21, 2016

About Beauty


How transcendental the adoration of beauty, a cult of loveliness which is in suggestion rather than in statement, a synesthetic effect in a sentence, the lure of a nuance in a sub text. Exquisite unspokenness bursting with possibilities, unexplored. A hint of a pulse of life, of exclusivity, the dawning awareness of a shared imagination. I speak of beauty implied, the maddening allure of an abstraction; just out of one’s grasp. Subtle male undertone in a lilting female tenor. Darkly blending medley of notes; beguiling abstruseness of androgyny. The echo after a song, the blazing butterflies pupating in a throat after a fevered near-kiss, brightness before a smile – gliding into a cheerful chortle. It is a vaguely remembered scent of a happy yesterday, a rush of recollection (that your mind goes ‘oh, oh.. and then, and this, and there…’ in a hurry to thread together all the shimmering, spilling beads of reminiscence). It is the heady promises tickling the air just before the start of a much-awaited journey, a holiday, the cusp of a happily-ever-after. Yesterday it was that perfect little cup of tea waiting for me at the perfect reading spot almost glowing it the yellowy-mellow light of the late November afternoon with melted shades of persimmon steeping into the golden petals of the sky.
A contemplating of beauty for beauty’s sake, a reconciliation with something lost, a reunion, a regaining of a lost paradise.


Image by Carl Larsson

Monday, March 7, 2016



Solace of the warm arm above the pillow. Solace of a creamy coffee anticipated. Visit from an elusive muse leaving behind near-undeciphirable pencil scribbles on the tiny notebooks. Solace of that dreamy, rumpled smile followed by a clumsy kiss. Solace of the tenderness behind it. Solace of this small, undramatic, unconditional, unhurried, undemanding happiness.The rustle of pre-dawn shadows from which all pain has departed, only the solace of sleep remains.






Agara Lake: It is the leaf-falling season again. Air hallucinating in a drench of dragonflies and yellowing leaves. Liquiscent amber deepening into purple. A blur of a bird-note, quiet rumble of feathers. Trees bloom in a delirium of flowers, the rest display their fine mesh of fragile cartilage holding the dear secrets of nests and hives. Even in the heart of the city, nature springs forth from every crack and forgotten corners. Everything in its sheerest shade. I drown in the crashing waves of epiphanies.


 


To enmesh in the fronds of your languid replies.
To carry this quiet, inexplicable despair within me like a fragile glass bird.
To become an anodyne to your wound.
To accidentally notice the glint of that faded wedding ring and suddenly feel a flooding, rush of immeasurable love.
To talk to your adored, sleeping shoulder – lips close to your dreaming skin - ending in a hushed moist-rose kiss.
To heal with a touch.
To forget the rest of the world for a moment.








Image: Pinterest