suntannedapples: June 2019

Monday, June 24, 2019

When the sunlight pours
it pours like rain.
Like an abstruse flow of water
it takes the shape of the things it touches;
every form becomes a shape,
a circle, a triangle, squares and all.
Every possible contour of geometry
gets defined and falls in place.

On one such morning of the precision of the sun
I saw her standing in the beam of light,
mesmerized, and mesmerizing!
She was standing quiet, peaceful,
her features drawn in light and dark,
brooding, secretive, lost in the light

and discovered in the shadow in the emerging day.and discovered in the shadow

in the emerging day.

Milan Lakić Timeline

Marc Chalmé, Les Arbres, 2013, Oil On Canvas

The Season Turns

The season turns
the season hurts
It's meant to wrap the darkness around
that enigma of the soul,
the desert, the sea, everything secretive,
dark like the Indian soil and the Indian rain, the Indian soul.
The hands of the breeze are warm and cold.
The enigmatic season, that's how it rains;
it rains in step; it rains out of step;
it scares,; it beckons;
it turns away;
it wraps around;
it swings;
it stops;
it creates a want; creates a need;
it changes the color of the sky from blue to gray, from gray to pitch dark of the moonless night.
It brings a moment when you understand all;
it brings a dance that destroys the belief;
makes you a spartan cynic that doubts all.
The season turns and hurts on the go
leaving a trail of enigma in the air and the soul.

Saturday, June 8, 2019

The green shaded into grey, somber
was the time.
The mountain lost its edges.
We drove on
but could not see the road.
It lost its magnificence
and as for us,
we lost our significance.
A huge carpet of shimmering car lights rolled out
between the gigantic girders painted in ugly red,
and we were just a small shape in the tapestry.
We traveled: from moment to moment,
from point to point,
never realizing that was not how we wanted to be seen
by the eye of the giant rolling pin: Time:
when we started out to reach the mountain,
resplendent like a crown, and elusive like the sound
of a fog horn in the mist.

Sushama Karnik
Mar 16, 2018

Image: Courtesy MMURAT MURAT

Originally shared by MMurat Murat

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Thursday, June 6, 2019

WILL YOU WALK WITH ME?
I walk through the corridors of thoughts
carved on the walls of temples, cathedrals and mosques.
It is all openness.
The walls are blank
and so are the entrance halls.
Silence hums like bees around hives,
and the lives the people lived
start humming back.
A bird sits on the dome, another there on a spire.
There is something for everyone, everything for all;
there is someone listening all along,
and am I there among them all?

Sushama Karnik
Jun 9, 2016