Words of Clay – “Gardener of Beauty”

Image

From His prison of aesthetics, can you grant me liberty?

From that hypnotic trance of His artistry, can you set me free?

Will I ever be able to alter my duty?

For at the celestial factory,

He sculpted me himself for sheer exclusivity,

To serve my years in flesh till the dusk of eternity,

As a zealous Gardener of Beauty…

Deb’013

Artist : Gauri Sakhuja

Words of Clay” is a poetic journey through the creations of Gauri Sakhuja, a young and talented Indian sculptor from her latest solo exhibition at Triveni Kala Sangam, New Delhi, India.

The journey ends with this post…

Thank You! readers for all your appreciation, inspiration and support. 

 

 

For more on the artist, visit : https://www.facebook.com/gauri.sakhuja/about

Advertisements

Words of Clay – “Be my King”

Image

Be my King this life,

I shall uproot that seedling of ego,

Shoo away from within my emotions of strife,

Into my ears, your weakness when they blow,

I shall wag it lame, bark it a hoax,

For in the game of  the wise,

The one in checks, without the dice,

Both, the King and his Pawn are packed back into the same box…

Deb’013

Artist : Gauri Sakhuja

Words of Clay” is a poetic journey through the creations of Gauri Sakhuja, a young and talented Indian sculptor from her latest solo exhibition at Triveni Kala Sangam, New Delhi, India.

 

For more on the artist, visit : https://www.facebook.com/gauri.sakhuja/about

Words of Clay – “Danced the Frogs…”

Image

Touched down heavy those clouds dark,

Swelled those droplets Divine,

Beams rolled roaring across the skies,

Stray dogs did no more bark,

Tied helpless, mooed cows from the shed,

Grunted wet that homeless swine,

Visible the pond, swayed away the fog,

Celebrated therein, the tailless amphibian clan,

To tunes of the whistling tempest,

Chuckles of the swaying trees shy,

The hymn of the peacock, jingles of the hopping fish,

Beats of the thunder high,

Danced, Danced the Frogs…

Deb’013

Artist : Gauri Sakhuja

Words of Clay” is a poetic journey through the creations of Gauri Sakhuja, a young and talented Indian sculptor from her latest solo exhibition at Triveni Kala Sangam, New Delhi, India.

 

For more on the artist, visit : https://www.facebook.com/gauri.sakhuja/about

Words of Clay – ” Living Blue, Living True”

Image

Vulnerable, much envied resides the Buddha within,

Inner peace is no more free, a price seeps in,

Yet the blue man continues to live it true,

Crouching under his marble umbrella Trojan,

His need for protection pinches him human,

Humbles him his mortality to respect Nature’s curfew,

Not a stain of compromise could taint his virtues,

Confident in a smile! The toughest of climes pass away, too…

Deb’013

Artist : Gauri Sakhuja

Words of Clay” is a poetic journey through the creations of Gauri Sakhuja, a young and talented Indian sculptor from her latest solo exhibition at Triveni Kala Sangam, New Delhi, India.

 

For more on the artist, visit : https://www.facebook.com/gauri.sakhuja/info

Lost in Sounds

Image

Ripens the dusk into a golden day,

Beaks squeak, stretch out new red gums,

Hungry has them the yawning Sun,

Squeaks sharpen shrill and shriller from within their cradle of hay,

A flutter of a pair of mature wings,

Duty shoots up, cries aloud,

Greetings to the Lord, out of the green canopy,

That hiss of the leaves then,

The clutter of the lark’s flaps into that wilderness blue,

The viper crushing through the crispy carpet beneath,

Boots on fried leaves, munch munch,

Wandered the Ranger sniffing scales astray,

Up and close with me, face to face,

Words shot out from his mouth,

Like meteors from a meteoroid,

They hit me everywhere, missed my ears though,

Strangers now to man’s gibberish, they were busy, you know,

The Viper’s soft crush sparkled into a slithery fleeting escape,

Rang like a bell, that long rub of slipping scales,

On their sleek couches, debated those baboons,

Sang the nightingale unnerved,

A stench of sweat jostled me back,

Oh! The Ranger, he was still talking, talking to me,

Listen! Thuds of the angry elephant,

His trumpets of caution,

On his way to trample and plunder,

Soars the volume, intensifies, as if reaching us that hush,

Branches being broken,

Shown the ground, bushes and weeds,

Facing each other we stood there,

Though I was away with my ears,

Frustrated, hands on holster, that Ranger,

He was yelling futile, still talking to me…

Debaroon’2013

(This piece is completely inspired by the 2013 Bengali (an East Indian language) film, ‘Shobdo’ (Sound) by Kaushik Ganguly.

The movie narrates a unique tale about a recording studio professional that has been making a living by naturally producing sounds, heard around us in our daily lives. For example, he shakes a half filled jar of grains fast and faster in front of the microphone to produce the sound of a passing toy-train. Another, example from the film itself is the scene where he creates the sound of the flapping wings of a hundred pigeons that depart the streets into the skies after a scattered mail of grains, simply by flapping together two bunches of ripened big leaves in each of hands, right in front of the microphone.

He develops a strange obsession for imitating and creating sounds around him. His passion stretches out of control to an extent where his brain slowly slithers out of the habit of decoding human speech with any kind of noise around.

He might only be able to comprehend you if you are talking to him in a sound proof room with pin drop silence. Anywhere else, he will not be able to understand human language and decipher the sound of human speech, anymore.

This is His story…

For more on the movie, Shobdo (Sound) : http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shabdo

For the movie trailer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-OOzquVF_fc )

 

 

 

Image Credits:

http://radmanlew.blogspot.in

On Lungs of Desire…

Image

Shut are eyelids of that ocean of consent,

Awaits the end of those hours black, restless to rise,

Throbs in her depths that urge to blink turquoise,

Boycotted winds blow in strong from the East and the West,

Meet secret, kiss aloud, sands whirl celebrate,

Willfully surrenders quiet that beach at rest,

Footprints of two misfits alight, spot closer to merge,

Then, from both ends of that seamless expanse they converge ,

His drums roll to thuds of her anklets, desire glows red at dance,

While snores their stubborn nemesis to a short-lived trance,

That society under the moist blanket of their city,

Passion rages unbound, in pricked junk spotted arms of that musician,

Clung to his heart feeble and tender,

Blooms the dancer’s wish to set free from behind inescapable bars of gender,

Dreams of acceptance are dreamt, but varies the pace of their fulfillment,

When ready for an unnatural change, for its dripping sour melody,

The dancer switches to medical magic, secretly,

To distort the only definite, the only truth, the human body,

When eyes in the hospital beam to a strange light,

They open up to that junkie, now rehabilitated with a smile,

Gone his rags, now dressed bright and clean,

With his newlywed wife by his side, someone a woman, naturally,

Some vision more pain,

Eyelashes droop again,

A tear stream wedges down curves of the dancer’s cheek,

Cancelled is the vagina transplantation,

Undone shall be the breast plantation,

The ball from the past was a feast for a strange temptation,

Love survived only on unapproved and wishful pumping lungs of desire,

Tides of acceptance hit the beach,

The homogenous voice of the mass in reach,

A welcome with arms wide spread, as it its reception,

The speed freak’s footprint was washed away by that ocean ,

While that of the dancer gazed lonely at the moon, longed another misfit,

Sank deeper, licked deeper salts of exclusion,

That last footprint grew into a Pit…

Debaroon’2013

 

(Inspired from the Bengali film, ‘Chitrangada’ by the late filmmaker, Rituparno Ghosh, one of the most talented directors from the country with 12 National Awards in her kitty.

Chitrangada: The Crowning Wish is a 2012 Bengali-language film written and directed by Rituparno Ghosh. The film premiered on 25 May 2012 at the New York Indian Film Festival. The movie deals with the topics of homosexuality, gender identity and the freedom to choose one’s role in a deeply heteronormative and conformist society.

For more on the movie: http://cliched-monologues.blogspot.in/2013/03/chitrangada-crowning-wish-2012.html)

 

 

Image Credits: http://rhondabuss.blogspot.com

Loving Me…

Image

My haughty honeybee,

Loving me was never easy,

It was never a question of only you and me,

Or, of glued souls on sands by the sea,

To love me right,

You have to open your eyes,

Pierce in me, your sight,

Into my being, you got to walk a mile,

Confront the deed that makes me smile,

Excavate my celestial gifts,

Taste my passion, my verses and beats,

You got to fall for his art first,

Only then, can you fall for the artist,

Only then, can you fall for me,

My haughty honeybee,

Loving me was never easy…

Debaroon’2013

 

 

Image credit : http://www.quick-good-fortune.com

Without You

Image

Inutile, lies pale my stretch,

You’re exercising refrain,

And, here I pose,

Wasted, amidst disposed wires,

Away from the lights,

In the darkness,

Faded, meek gone the pitch,

I can barely hear the rock ‘n roll,

Below wings of the stage,

Unused, rusting away strained,

I have lost your touch,

For your rhythmic strokes,

Mute wails seep out through my barren membrane,

When they perform without me,

I miss you the most for it kind’ a pricks,

Only, had you not gone missing,

My sleek wooden sticks,

Without you this handsome drum,

Has no tune to it,

No bangs, jigs or beats,

Can never be part of a gig,

Without you,

Worthless, my fame,

Rumors then, my indispensability,

Without you,

Forgotten, my medals of percussion,

Soundless my existence,

Dead are my cells of utility,

Without you,

I can make no music…

Debaroon’2013

 

 

Image from : http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Drum

@Rosetta

Image

No beer for me,

Water should suffice,

Cold-kissed cheeks,

Brazened red,

Bee eyed alert stare,

Gushing breath jamming along her heart throbs,

Ran in her mind, pulsating thoughts,

I too, could end up like my mom,

Licked by the spirit, dumped in the rut,

Enslaved, I too could be trading out self-respect,

Robbed off senses, kissing the mud, the liquored whore,

Often, unable to make it to our make-shift home, our rented caravan,

Ants could be running up my arms,

Nose pricked to futility by long blades of grass,

No discomfort, No irritation, No regret,

I too could embrace slumber to decay, decompose,

Now, there’s old meat for my shaggy landlord,

With me, he’ll taste new,

He’ll know my smell,

He has sniffed my mother well,

My unexplored uncared youth for him,

Dug out of the desert, a Buddha of gold,

Dinner is over,

You’ve already held my hand,

Taken my culture-ridden dumbness for a waltz,

Now, you could even take your chance,

As it is, your sweetness scares,

No beer for me,

Water should suffice…

Image

 

Debaroon’2013

 

Image

 

Inspired from the 1999 French-Belgian film, ‘Rosetta’ is the story of a poverty stricken young girl, too unfortunate for education, burdened with an alcoholic mother, single handedly paving survival through daily life blues prevalent in the lower-middle class.

The scene, where she speaks from under her blanket, after a hard day, is one to remember.

She softly speaks to herself, before she switches off for the day,

 

“Your name is Rosetta,

My name is Rosetta,

You’ve got a job,

I’ve got a job,

You’ve got a friend,

I’ve got a friend,

You’ve a normal life,

I’ve a normal life,

You won’t fall in the rut,

I won’t fall in the rut,

Goodnight…”

 

(For more on the movie:

http://www.rottentomatoes.com/m/rosetta/

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0200071/

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rosetta_%28film%29

 

 

Images from :

http://www.bonjourtristesse.net

http://indieoutlook.files.wordpress.com

http://2.bp.blogspot.com

)

IMMORTAL, UNSHARED —- “a monologue in verse”

Image

Inhaled years full of compassion at home,

Right from the days I bloomed,

Got used to the rights and the wrongs,

I started identifying pain,

Empathy oozing intravenous shots,

Pricked my ass, everyday,

Kindness exceeded speed-limits in my nerves,

Shot up to my brains,

I was melting liquid in that rock age,

To live did I need to share,

To breathe, and eat, needed the same,

Normalancy pills, I couldn’t satisfy alone,

Cherish all by myself,

Uneasy if I did,

Sharing was that springboard to the pool of my existence…

I served, fought insane,

Lost drops of humanity,

To stars, golden,

Why did no one share my wrath?

Everything slipped beyond reach, into oblivion,

Nothing could wage the typhoon of duty,

Shared and soon missing they went,

Withering at home,

Waiting to shut the lights forever,

Dive into darkness to return never,

Pull down the shutters,

Hammer the store “Sealed”

I really have little left to share today…

 

That sandalwood tree stood there, you see

Branching gorgeous, smelling irresistible all night all day,

Stark red flesh, divine nakedness,

Fooled many a nose-less eyes,

Mostly from far away,

Her dark regular foliage,

A species scarce,

She could milk this universe,

She was the only oil to flickering flames of my life,

More precious than all that I’ve earned this far,

Immortal, Unshared,

My Loveless, blood-stained Medals of Honor,

The python lies wrapped, intoxicated in sandalwood,

Rejuvenating in her stench, tripping in her fumes,

Her bark in his tight embrace,

Powerful muscles, seducing her,

Kissing scales on her wood,

Her touch that till now,

Only I had known,

Only I had felt…

 

Immortal, Unshared,

Let me have her in my memories,

Death shall bestow her into my arms forever,

Snatch her from the beast, the intruder,

Save her hellish pangs of disloyalty,

Perils of faithless karma,

Immortal Unshared,

Death shall stir, dissolve her in me,

Have me drunk in her bliss for a lifetime…

 

Perfumed logs of wood lie abandoned, butchered,

Sliced, lie apart, they face their wounds,

Smiles beside, laughs lethal,

My silver saw,

Drenched from drops of praise,

Flaunting its reliable blades,

For its perfection, the job done,

Uprooted, sliced from its waist,

Only I could hear her sob now,

Weep her faith,

Watch her bleed love,

I sit by her slaughtered trunk,

Stems, leaves, her aura in collapse,

These should be done away with,

Dug away from the world,

Maybe, sold to the dogs,

For, now they’re mere objects, vacuum, soulless,

Immortal, Unshared,

Now, she resides deep within me,

Only mine, until the end…

 

(Confession of a retired army lieutenant to the murder of his wife…)

 

 

Debaroon’2013

 

(Image used from http://www.visualphotos.com )