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Tag: photograph
At Sea
Yet, there is a part of me that wants to stop. To give in to the waters and become a stone-cold statue at the bottom of the ocean, but the fear of being one of those ghosts that wander the seas keeps me. Safely afraid. I’ve waded far, yes, but the blood is my own.
Nārāyaṇī
'Sita in Ashoka Grove' It was called Ashok-the grove of no sorrows...where, she, held by forcedwindled 'tween gloomand the faithful hopeof rescue by her LordSay, O, Tree, she spokein a dusked, despairing hourTo thy name be truelend me a branching handthat my hair may as rope free me in soul, if not in formAs winds,… Continue reading Nārāyaṇī
Isha proudly presents…
...her vintage card collection. Ta-Da! Such a cliché of a writer, aren't I? The romance with literature began very young and so did my collection. Letters, paper, poetry in every form took me to worlds I felt at home with. The photograph features two cards (as honourary mentions)- not vintage (yet)- but worthy of being part of my collection sheerly due to their meaning, moving words and the fact that they were sent to me by bloggers on WordPress- a fellow poetess from Vancouver whom I was blessed to meet and share wonderful time with, and an artist whose work I've also featured before. Handwritten cards- cards in themselves- are such a lost art and no words will ever express my delight at receiving them among those gifts air-mailed to me. (pauses to picture them in the hands of future grandchildren fascinated by their cool granny, lol). Though I've gifted some of those cards over the years, to people who wanted them- only one was ever used by me. The last letter I wrote to my dad, which was placed over his chest as he was carried away from home for the last time. There were a couple of people who tried to stop me then (as it "wasn't part of the cremation rites" to place anything such thing on the body), but it remained there and went with him.
Lionheart
...a one-track soul, feet submerged completely all at once, and a sudden breath escaping as the last cold death being offered to Vaikuntha, for eternity. Big boulders over the charging waters, and my feet unsteady atop one; I found sure footing and let them guide me as milestones to the cosmos. One by one, making my way, pulled to that smile; the strongest, sweetest breath of God against my cheek; ebony hair waving- the herald of a homecoming.
Going Home, Sinatra
The station was empty, save for the moths fluttering by the lemon glow of the lone light bulb. You could almost hear the quietness- the eerie lull so characteristic to my town. Quiet, lost and forgotten little place. Existing in secret. The train came in, huffing and puffing, hooting, and whistling; creating the only buzz… Continue reading Going Home, Sinatra
Séance
But I'm not entitled anymore, to express. I've lost that claim that comes with a certain belongingness, so I remain silent instead and watch it rain, over the hungry mountains... for, I know, the dust will settle.
The Last Breath
Whipped by the winter wind A lone prayer flag
These branches I see
For years, I never noticed... for her boughs were always lush; yet, this time the winter seems to have whispered in her nerves a cold song. And every now and then she tries to summon her courage, to lose herself in spring again... yet, each time, is forced to watch her new leaves shed
Observations
The scent of face-powder. The puff of perfume. The sound of children at their play and a distant church-bell… Just the five senses. And off we go.
Ishaisms 
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