Skip to main content

Artist

Each passing second of a prosaic life
Showered me with scorns for not stopping by
At abodes where dreams flew like feathers.

I'm an eternal traveler now, through orbits of
Dreams, on top of balloons made out of canvas
Stitched tight with threads of noxious hope.

An artist was born amidst, he pricked the balloons
With a pin, taking out the strands of hope,
And sinking my life on seas of random celebrations.


Notes
Prompted by Kim Nelson on Verse First at Poets United . The noun artist ended up with celebrations.

Comments

  1. Yikes! What travels this artist and his baby have! Can't wait to see the exhibit after the opening celebrations, and hope above hope that it is not a wake.

    ReplyDelete
  2. wow the canvas stitched together with noxious hope....vivid description....
    a life of random celebrations would def be fun too...smiles.

    ReplyDelete
  3. LOVE "where dreams flew like feathers" and "threads of noxious hope". This is brilliant, the canvas balloons add a really cool note.

    ReplyDelete
  4. Thanks people. Loved your comments. :)

    ReplyDelete
  5. I really like thinking about being an eternal traveler. That would be quite a journey indeed. Nicely composed, Anand.

    ReplyDelete
  6. Nice & vivid... I especially like the middle stanza.

    ReplyDelete
  7. dreams like feathers . . . noxious hopes, artists and balloons made out of canvas. What a visually descriptive treat.

    ReplyDelete
  8. Traveling on the top of balloon! ~ breath taking journey...but, when pricked find yourself in 'seas of random celebrations' - it's LIFE! Wonderful imagery!

    ReplyDelete
  9. That was a breath taking flight....beautiful canvas! So well written, Anand!

    ReplyDelete
  10. beautiful! To say we both took an Artist as a noun and your take here is simply breathtaking! a surreal flight of noxious hopes! :)

    ReplyDelete
  11. I AM an artist and a writer, so this three-line-per, three-stanza piece resonates deeply with me. I have felt the sensations you describe. I LOVE IT!

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Nataraja | The Lord of Dance

Art : Nataraja by Satheesh Kanna All the reverberations of the world nestled In a tiny speck that glowed bright, Like beads in a necklace, It united with The mighty hands of a violent Lord. The speck, moved along like a Cobra, It wrestled to be released, A space Overpowering, yet calm waited For the Cobra to taste his infinity. The Lord held the flames of wrath on his left hand, He clutched onto it with a rage unmatched, With it all powers shall crumble down, With it all creations shall see annihilation. Umbraged, liberated and fearsome, The speck escaped his hands, Fire Spread all around the Lords' head, For once The speck was here, next it was there. It encircled the Lord in a heavenly tune, The frenzy uplifted the Lord, His hands moved to push the flame, Onto the circling speck. In a flash of ambrosial light and sound, The speck exploded and whizzed all around, The Lord went onto a fury of power, He felt his waist c

A Lost Love

Artwork: Google Images   The calm of morphine kept fading, By little I found the pain brewing, While the untamed heart kept pounding Much like a blanched pigeon Freshly caged. Days were lost in hours of pain, Weeks passed as I couched Sans the strength to speak out, I gave a whisper one day As lightly as a fading song, I asked the doctors about her health. Spells of hallucination always struck, I remained in a hospital bed Looking at the monitor echoing my beats, But a moment after, I am in a car, Racing at knots at the rage of opium. In a moment my life became white, Her hands were clutched onto mine, I looked into her eyes and a paranoia rose, Is it the morphine that flows through me, Or is it the opium that makes me high? The doctors claimed she had died, But then who sat beside me last night? Drops of tears concerned my vision I felt her as real as the flagitious doctors Who raced around me like wild hyenas. A whi

The Partition

I dedicate this poem to all Pakistanis. You are all as much a kin to me as Indians. One of the many images of partition that moved me emotionally. It was also the cover photo of  Yasmin Khan's book, The Great Partition  The second column of Muslims passed, Not a soul in our side had the strength, To shower them with our words; cursed, Along they passed as silent as us, Drifting with the hot and wild wind, That very often burns our face, As we cut through this desert; wretched. O lovely dawn of freedom, while you showered purple and gold, half of us never knew what future held, Singing and dancing beneath the relentless sun, we hugged and kissed the conspirator's arms. The line drawn that sliced Punjab, The surgical tool that dissected Bengal, Never seemed more poignant, Till it ripped us apart from Lahore, And made us to savor this journey. Guided by a false pretense of safety, Moving onto a false notion of liberty, Living on the narrow verg