Erika KompatscherTHE OTHER SIDE OF ART · Jay Nottingham (British Painter, born 1972) "Windy Ridge", 40 × 40 cm. Oil on Canvas. No insights to show

 On a sudden a midnight of purple blue

Stunned the white washed walls of the house,

Casting no shadow

The house emerged out of the dark,

Surreal, illusory, a visionary spark.

A stark contrast to the discerning eye

Between what the heart desires and the mind rejects.

The purple light pours in relentlessly.

Blurs the lines that mark the ravages of time and the ranting of the past.

The moonlight Sonata feels like rain

And when the moonlight rains

The season is in a rage.

Sushama Karnik.

Erika KompatscherTHE OTHER SIDE OF ART

dosnptSores2A0,9c72a19f f210hh93gt70890 153aiau2m39cufugt3tt  · 

Jay Nottingham (British Painter, born 1972)

"Windy Ridge", 40 × 40 cm.

Oil on Canvas.

. A certain night sleeps

and the universe closes its eyes. 

The spaces between the rocks sleep. 

The tree tops stop swaying.  

The woman in me wakes .

Her mirror goes to sleep

and she finds she's grown old;

finally and lastly,

grown old.

A hymn, a psalm, a lullaby

nothing of these is needed now.

Far from here,

there on the beach, someone who travelled eternally

without a thought for his soul

has now come to rest in silence

and sitting in the moonlight quietly.

Thoughts, good or mad, insolent or humble,

words, mysterious, foggy, or hurtful in clarity,

looks clouded in doubt or revelation,

silence of the sea and the wind are the abridged version of all.

The woman in the heartland

of the continent of her mind

insularly.

And his vagrant soul

returned from travels,

sitting in the moonlight silently,

contemplating her eyes reflecting

dream and doubt,

filling his mind endlessly.

Eternity dwells

in the spaces carved

in the interstices between rocks,

a moment for the moon to descend and feel

the desires, the yearnings that propel the humans

to go in search of answers all over the earth,

and finally end in the lap of the night. 

 A Jungle Trying To Escape

Just before the spring makes way to summer

and the rains coming next in full force

I like to be in the backyard of my house.

In the fifty long years the trimmed grass

where children played

has given way to unkempt weeds and saplings,

and survivalist plants.

It can't be called a garden

but it still has a character

all its own.

Here the plants and saplings have their reign.

They decide where to grow and when,

and once they have chosen their places

they stubbornly stay.

Try what you can, they will not budge.

We bow to their will and let them grow

We are open now to their capricious games,

the games they play to tease

us and the birds.

To our astonishment, one fine summer we saw

the corner at the far end

had turned into a rich grove of mango trees.

A few years thence with no specific care or nurture

it started to blossom at its own sweet will.

The saplings of palms and coconut trees

have grown up to tell their own stories

of Goa and Konkan from where they came and settled here.

On some stormy nights when the sky is crossed by wind and clouds

and the sudden streaks of scary lightning,

the hints of the storm to come,

they start to whisper with one another in a hissing sound.

They would not let us sleep, with the sounds

of the branches crashing down with a fury,

and the whole night the drama would go

alternating between a spell of silence

and the battling noise of sound and fury.

It's a veritable jungle now;

A jungle trying to escape the fences

made by crumbling walls and boundaries

washed away in the water- logging by the rains.

Sushama Karnik.

 "Language, for me, has only existed from the moment it became an instrument of combat." I was a son of an Italian immigrant. I came to a place where my name disappeared: I was called "salami" or "macaroni"...

For me, the great victory was to speak French, which was a nightmare for me. You know, those mothers who are very beautiful and accidentally give birth to their first husband but are always outside with very heavy and very penetrating perfumes, wearing diamond necklaces, changing hairstyles, living in a scary mundane and forget The kid who stayed at home... Well! Me, the French was this mother I had. A great mother who once in a while would leave me a little word and leave. And who did I have to represent her? It was the language of the cop, the judge, the professor in my midst. They were only people with a gourd, morals, metaphysics in their hands. So, my only way to beat me was to be first in French, beat these people on their own turf. (... )

But I'm Mediterranean I sometimes wonder how lyricism, or a certain overrated existence of the verb, isn't from my roots. Because in what I see there's not only the moment I live but the whole story behind it. And the story has weight, a truth. I meet the whole world at the meeting of this story. Even in this place, the Mediterranean, which took its name the fifth cardinal point: the middle one, the inner sea. The sea on which I was born, I evolved. The sea I'm currently living death of. "

Armand Gatti

On the website of Rosa Moussaoui

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229Mohamed Zimouche and 228 others

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Van Gogh's Starry Night

 Van Gogh's Starry Night

On a starry night he walked

to the foot of a leafless birch.

The moon cascaded its light.

It was the bluest of the blue that night.

The steeples rose and the roofs

were bathing in the serenade of blue.

His fevered brow felt the icy calm.

His eyes closed and took in the sky.

In one quick breath the universe wrote

the entire saga of his life

on the canvas he had carried on his tired back.

It was a delirium of blue on the palette and the sky.

He dipped his brush in blue

and let it swirl in spirals;

dipped again in amber, and let the birch rise

in a leafless glory ascending to the sky.

It was the night when the agony

turned into a raging flight

to tear the veil from the reality,

and the sky answered to his dream of

ending the world of duality.

Sushama Karnik. (c). moon

Francoise Dhulesia

I admire the way you invite the reader to feel the painter's frenzied passion for the sky! You live the act of painting through the artist.

What struck me most's: "the universe wrote the entire saga of his life on the canvas": the roles seem almost reversed in this moment of extreme passion, the sky personified, the artist and his subject in a perfect symbiosis!

I would have loved to study the poem with my pupils, on a stylistic point of you!

Sushama Karnik

 Your wish to study the poem with your pupils is the highest compliment I could hope for. Thank you so much Francoise. I have noticed also the kind of teacher who lives inside you. You never use the word "teaching" for the role you play for your students; you are always studying, discussing the text alongside your students. I like this living vibrancy of the role of the teacher.

Dawn breaks, and I am dreaming still

Dawn breaks I am dreaming still. The echoes sound and reverberate.

Softer first than the first sounds of an early bird, they mount the hill

and perch on the rock until the sunrise breaks through the clouds

A dawn breaks, on the hill, the horizon, and the sea.

A sound takes wings.

A flight on the wind, an upward swing,

and upward to the sky.

Light are the wings, and light is the sky,

light is the dream that brings in the dawn

to diffuse the air with a heavenly sound of the dawn.

I am breathing fresh, a June midnight and an august morn.

A peacock's plume shaken by the raindrops

lets fall a shower of ecstasy.

An anguish a moment ago,

you sent a word to not feel sad

and the dawn is a messenger, a herald of peace.

Sushama Karnik.

22 March 2022

11. 57 AM

Francoise Dhulesia

Your poem celebrates subtlety, in the awakening of the day, with each line glorifying the miracle of life.

From lento to adagio and moderato, the poem reads like a piece of music, the slow awakening of an allegro.

Marvelous image of the peacock's plume, graceful, just like the poem.

You have written a poem in the beat of a wing, in the freshness of a ray of light. An ode to life.

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8Françoise Dhulesia, György Fülöp and 6 others

 

A house in the desert seen often it the wildest dream,

I went past continents and oceans and reached  the spot on the horizon.

It was there for me. 

The moon dropped at my feet.

The path behind which I traversed in dream

was washed  clean by the light brought by the moon. 

Just as I neared  the house of my dream

An obsolete Aquarian soul

came to the sky from another Time

and poured water on my path

in a continuous stream. 

And Lo, the path was a Milky Way,

from a milenium away

It was a gentle upliftment.

The house in the desert I longed for was out of sight.

An Aquarian Earth was left behind. In my end was my beginning

ordained by the Aquarian Soul.

 It's not dark yet,

and I still read travelling on train,

a window seat, a night train, the light on,

and each page a vivid screen. The night on a train,

the best time and place to read;

a certain calm in the midst of the rumble

of the sound of the friction

between the wheels and the track, the mind and the heart, the darkness of the passing night and

the warmth of the reading light within.

And all through the journey,

you are with me

whispering secrets which time restores

running on the track with the sound of a rumble.

Sushama Karnik.

English Literature

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“It is impossible to read in America, except on a train, because of the telephone. Everyone has a telephone, and it rings all day and most of the night.”

Bertrand Russell [1924]

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