Drop by drop.. throb by throb.. beat by beat..

It is about listening.. listening for that heart.. that heart throbbing, beating.. beating somewhere.. somewhere where another heart is throbbing, beating.. in time.. both in perfect time..

Time that is trickling.. drop by drop.. throb by throb.. beat by beat..

Can you hear its throb..?.. Will you heed its beat?.. Or will you let it trickle away.. away into the dark of nothing..?

Drop by drop.. throb by throb.. beat by beat..

Painting: The view from my sister's house

The last time I had come here to Seattle it was this season.. icy cold. I went out on the deck and painted the gorgeous view, my hands, nose, face, body freezing into numbness. The large tree that I included is actually on the right side (the third picture here). This time the winter has been pretty severe, hence the trees have greyed, when I painted it they had been green, as I have depicted them.

This time I plan on making quick little paintings of the surrounding scenery which I revel in in my walks. What a beautiful place this is! It's a cliché I know, but picture postcard landscapes is really the perfect description. My hands are itching to paint them, but am allowing myself to acclimatize before venturing out or else will fall sick. 

sipping cardamom tea

(well, here in Seattle I am savouring the aromatic coffee - my sis makes great coffee with freshly ground coffee beans.. but am feeling a few nostalgic pangs for the elaichi cutting chai back home..)

 

the old tea vendor, who owns the stall in the roadside corner

with his prized possession - an old aluminum kettle

battered and pitted with age, with a crooked handle

yet beaming and gleaming with a daily scrubbing -

fills it with water and plenty of milk

into which he flings a fistful of black tea leaves

along with cracked cardamom seeds with their split skins

along with fistfuls of sugar – the sweeter, the better - 

he then puts the kettle on the fire with its leaping orange flames

until the viscous light brown fluid comes to a boil

and rises up in frothy turmoil which he pours out into

plain glasses in steamy streams

to be sipped in the noisy symphony of passing traffic

and savoured in the harmony of kindred company

- Rita Putatunda

apo STROPHE’ d

 

 

 

 

 

suitably line-broken and strophed I fervently hope

 

apo STROPHE’ d

 

 

in your eyes,

                                   

 

                                   undulating streets,

                                                                     

 

                                                           rivulets of reminiscences

 

disappear

 

                          into the rummage.

 

here       are                no

 

 

                                                   Violent Volcanoes

 

                                         of PURPLE archipelagos, no s>cr>e

 

 

h^I^s^t^o^r^I^e^s, no well-fed

 

 

certitudes intumescing

 

                               in gelid r-I-g-I-d-I-f-I-c-a-t-I-o-n-s, no psyche c~o~n~v~o~l~v~I~n~g

 

 

 

inside a withered solstice.

                                              

 

                                                                                                                at least, not so

 

 

far.

 

 

 

on my skin,

 

 

                                                                                                cantilevered mildew and

                              

                pungent mustard-flower stem,

 

 

unreasoning tentacles beget their own

 

 

              

                                                                tremulous vocabularies,

 

 

                                                                           and I lick

                                                                     the aqua-ice ephemerality of

 

 

 

a reservoir of oral examinations,

                                                                                            free from residual

 

 

recriminations.