Wednesday, July 27, 2016

Between Shoulder Blades

Shoulders often go unnoticed, understated. Have you observed how intriguing they are? A landscape of gentle glens and dales - in perpetual penumbra - the blades, the dimples and the nape. 

A papilionaceous garden. An oft neglected topography. 

Encased in a gentle mesh of caresses, its nuchal inclines gently petal. The incurve quivers.

 Minute fronds tremble; responding to a spray of raindrops, sheer fabric and kisses.

How so infinitely precious its gentle lifts. Its casual, almost imperceptible, shrugs. The sorrowful droops. 

All those constellations and tessellations fading in and out of its delirious surface and the loveliest of the myelic shivers when in contact with an eager lip or a knuckle.

One wants to revere it with gentle inhales all the way from the nape down to the dimples and scattered moles. 

Trap it in a cage of soft trembles.

Picture: Google Images

Inspired by Nabokov's quote on reading:

Although we read with our minds, the seat of artistic delight is between the shoulder blades. That little shiver behind is quite certainly the highest form of emotion that humanity has attained when evolving pure art and pure science. Let us worship the spine and its tingle.

Friday, July 22, 2016

The Hours

6.15 am. 
The bathroom floor reveals tiny stories-
a yawning ogre by the bucket, 
an orgy near the door-

11.30 am.
Receding cold exposes old scars
making doors unclosable
windows shriek at mid-morning,
the vegetation under our skins die.

3.40 pm.
A sticky eye tears apart;
afraid to blink, in case it shuts forever
ceiling un-drips, coils back,
the sane smoothness resumes.
More tea, yes.

6.45 pm-
I waddle through the tingling coherency
of your reasons.
its hydric warbles;
a particle, a wave
we remain-
exquisitely inconclusive

11.20 pm
I am afraid of our immeasurability;
I look for the dead ends,
but all I see is a labyrinth
swallowing itself.

1.00 am
a car’s reversing tune morphs in half-nightmares.
a crow’s incessant pecks on my forehead.

3.20 am-
I press my dripping glue-hands to my eyes,
to prevent my face from dropping off
on the floor.

3.45 am
Beasts gnaw into rib-spaces
colours from each brick sucked
clean lines and bones of still life
leaves in grey-scale-
Moon - the silent bleacher
streets, teeth-white and forlorn-
the graph of the city shivers
its aged veins exposed.

4.00 am
Tossnturn tossnturn tossnturn
dance of even-toed ungulates
defeating bleats, tiny hoofs
pitter-patters, flurry of fleece
Whoever suggested counting sheep!

4.15 am
Miniscule dolls on each hair-strand
chorusing sand-papered screams.

5.00 am
Moon-pill breaks-
spills, a cloud-stained sky
I am drenched in
mute ballads and neurosis
airless craters become allegories for love

6.00 am
behind my spine-
a woman-shaped lake forms
golden framework
teeming with the new-born earths.
the first bird sings a lullaby
parched eyes close welcoming-
the restless brevity of dreams. 

Image: Brian De Young

Sunday, July 10, 2016

Once Upon a Park

The uniform, dead colour of the cubicle dissolves as sleep brims and stumbles from my eyes. Little hints of gradations, tiny whirls of mauve and green appear - the colours of undulating vistas seen in timeworn photographs. With the suddenness of very old memories recollected at pre-dawn, the image of an imagined swing flowed out in a slow drawl, imbuing each molecule of sleep. 

I can barely remember that drizzly afternoon, the school trip to a local park and zoo. But what a shock of sensations recollected. I remembering offering the zebra a particularly juicy leaf which it crunched up with obvious relish. I kept wondering why it was ok for a zebra to chew with its mouth open while I get told off. Every insignificant element stands out in vivid detail – the zebra’s surprisingly white even teeth, the way it kept sighing and the fascinating way it twitched all over, distorting the black and white for a brief psychedelic moment, to get rid of the hovering flies.

 Large white mushrooms clustered around a tree, I got scolded for picking one to see the frilly underside, like carefully folded pleats. ‘Chi, chi… drop it!’ I dropped it and was made to wash my hands. Out of some incomprehensible juvenile malice I stomped down the rest of the mushrooms and released in the process, tiny, white wisps of spores into the air.  There was a tire-swing hanging from the branch of a jackfruit tree. The rain had made a pool inside the tire and gauzy mosquito larvae danced in it. They would slowly pulsate their way to the surface and then, as if stunned by the sudden gulp of air, float down barely moving and before touching the bottom they restart their sickeningly enthralling wriggle to the surface. There was something so liquescent and loathsome about them. If the tire stopped swaying for a while the larvae remained clinging to the surface but a wind will blow, rippling the water and the larvae resumed their lurching up and down dance. A hazily remembered classmate shook the swing until all the water was gone, but I distinctly remember the clear ripple of his laughter with a hint of charming insanity. 

The view from a swing, head tilted back, rain smattering over my face, an oscillating, blurry sight of the swaying trees and the fractured fractal clouds through the branches.  I recollect the feel of a large, wet flower falling on my bare arm 20 monsoons ago and it makes my fingers shudder now while they fly over the keyboard perfunctorily, an article born under my uncaring hand – slips away, orphaned, into the world outside. Silent exhilaration. The triumph of a tiny moment of drifting-off over the permanency of wakefulness, of an impulsive memory over the perpetual monotony. Little pin-pricks of bliss in this dull tedium.     
Image by Nancy Colella