The lake where leaves float in the fall
is your body.
Mysterious, like the dawn
your face, withdrawn.

A lake where flakes of ice float
is your body.
Yearning to melt with the summer rain.
Your face is still withdrawn.

A smile rippling over the lake
is your body.
The passing day lingers on your limbs,
maybe you will turn in your sleep.

Sushama Karnik
Apr 4, 2017



Thanks +***** for the image

Originally shared by Testa David

Marina Podgaevska

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15 plus ones

Chagall's Blue Night

The window shuttered away the world out of their view.
Space, the vast stretches of chaos, man-made devastations
were erased, and on this side of the window was only love.
Years of bliss and ecstasy came and passed away.
Smothered in the long days of intimacy, they needed now space to breathe, live their different lives.
Intimacy and space, collisions of identities,
and that brings the moment when the window opens
to the world that begins to question
the mystique of love.
But Chagall's canvas captures the shade of the infinity
in the dreaming eyes and the night, and the drifting moon.

Sushama Karnik
29 Aug. 2019

Thanks @tArt Lover and @Domiku Aldari for the image

Art LoverTimeline

4 days ago

 Photo album: Marc Chagall

Marc Chagall, 'Two heads at the window', 1955-56

Saffron crushed

between your palms;

the mystique of vineyard all around,

the garments smell of the rain-soaked soil,

and in you hair, the wisps of smoke

of the incense that burnt all night.

The wind-swept trees huddled together

as the storm howled and blew out the lamp.

It was a night without the moon.

But a single star shone all along;

brighter than the crest of the moon and lighter than

the step of a child learning to walk.

Older than the echo in the cave,

your words sounded on that night to me.

The grave tones warned,

Storms greater than what you see tonight

have been witnessed by the humankind.

Put thy little lamp under a shield

and chant the magic of the memory of my name;

I am more than the name; I am the shield;

absorb this knowledge into your dreams,

and as you walk the path you will know

you are never alone.

Sushama Karnik
17 Sept. 2015.

Thanks for the image @fawzi hejazi

fawzi hejaziTimeline

6 months ago

The Newborn Image shared by Milan Lakic on MeWe

Художник Александр Евгеньевич Косничев родился в Москве в 1970 году

Here I come, beachcombing,

The waves are silent now.

There is no more to seek.

The sun has gone below the line,

a moment of stark nothingness.

That's the time for the sea to speak.

I watch for the farthest tide

touched by the molten gold.

Several breakers have come and gone

before the one that is remote journeys forth

to reach the rock where I receive

the tired wave. In exhaustion and ecstasy, in the final leap, it rises high,

then leaves its treasure which is now the surf in its shiny strings of pearls.

The things I sought and could not find

in my long effort at beachcombing

now lie in abundance before my eyes,

But with a difference! These are the wonders I cannot possess

unlike the shells and conch, I gathered

in the long hours spent in combing the beach

Image credit: @fawzi hejazi, Thanks for the image

fawzi hejaziTimeline

3 months ago

A ladder to stock
books and logs,
interlocked and intertwined,
and on the highest rung of the ladder, a cat
in a slumber, intuits the meaning of all.

Thanks for the image: Knihovna Chrastany

Knihovna ChrášťanyTimeline

3 months ago

• připraveno.....

Wrapped in a shawl of dainty leaves
of some tamarind green
the bulbul arrived, rested awhile,
and flew
to some coastal town unknown to me.
Not yet bothered about
the worries of finding a mate and building a nest,
the bulbul hopped and flew around.
The spot of red on its crown
was missing still.
But why should the bird worry?
It never even knew it must wear a red crown.
It was Nature's job to worry.
And everything in Nature comes
in its own time, in its own way.

SUSHAMA KARNIK
15 August 2019

Image credit Arup Banerji

Arup Banerji

15 August at 21:54

Restless, the sea calls. I smell the sea.
Tired of writing words,
I just want to sleep. A sleepwalker dreams
a dream of walking on the waves of the sea.
The salty air, the smell of fish,
the rocks whose bosom cradles the surf,
and the rain carrying the steamy air,
every night like a haunted soul
I wake up to their call.
A rowboat tied to a log,
I feel the tug of the sea.
Recall the changes in the shades of blue,
and I surrender the rhetoric of the empty words to the endlessness,
the rhythm of the gorge of the sea.
The irony of the madness of the urge to sing
in the presence of a vast tide of an awesome dream,
the dream when the madness is swallowed by the quietude of the sea.

Sushama Karnik
May 30, 2017


Image; Courtesy Marc Lafontan

Originally shared by Marc Lafontan

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• 
  tony langmach+1

  Oh, So very felt known Ocean
  Wonderful well-written Sushama & Take care

  REPLY

  
  Jun 4, 2017

  
• 
  Sushama Karnik+1

  The ocean has an accentuated presence! +tony langmach

  REPLY

  

Sleep o baby in the cradle of my arms
Quiet is the sky, quiet are the stars and the winds.
The song of the river is mute.
The cows have fallen asleep, without a sound.
Birds have stopped the singing.
Shadows are singing and the moonlight is lulled.
Sleep my child, my delight, let the anklets be silent.
Inhale the scent of the queen of the night
and sweetly go to sleep.

Sushama Karnik
May 21, 2017

Hasten the stars through this patch of blue;

wrap a shawl of sunlight around the frozen moon.

Shine a light, the golden one

right inside the underworld,

of mermaids and sirens and the cyclops's world.

Do anything and everything tonight

to reawaken the secrets, the mysteries hidden

in the stories read in the brand new story-books

with the curious smell of printing ink and polished covers.

The thinnest new curtains of the finest lace

of snow-white fabric crumpled into a dainty crease,

let them hang over the window-sill,

as Peter Pan and Wendy fall in love,

and I shall tell my darling all the tales

that live inside the story-book shelf of my mind. 

Sushama Karnik

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