My best birthday gift

Neil, my six year old nephew, a natural abstract artist, painted this for me. When he called me up on the morning of the 21st, he said he was on his deck (we call it balcony here of course) with his paints and paper, thinking of what to paint for me. So I suggested why not paint the lake which his deck overlooks. He said, yeah, great idea, Rita (he sounds so grown up these days) and painted this beautiful picture for me. I've told Nondi, my sister and his mother, to get him into a weekend art class, so that his natural talent is nurtured - just look at the imagination he has, the colours of the sky! 

Passionate despair

I am in passionate despair
Depression is the perfume I wear
It seems Life has ordained wretchedness
For me, so when happiness does finally arrive
If it ever does, I will appreciate it better.
Ever since that night - so many nights ago -
When I'd dreamt that he loved me
I have been sleepless, dreamless
Sitting around waiting
Dabbling into my woes
Plunging into seas of attempted prose
Which I pass off as poetry
Floundering in the throes of my heartbreak
Trying to master this dense disaster
Penning my misery deep into the night
My sleep deprived eyes
Getting puffier by the minute
Hoping for a glimmer of hope
From the other side
Where my slumberous love resides
In resplendent uncaring oblivion

Yeah, even in despair, I can be funny
And god knows I am in despair
But what difference does it make
My love, he will not awake!

How do you paint a dog's howl?

I've begun painting again... and it's beautiful... It's like coming home, after being away for long.. No, it's not easy.. yet.. it never is easy, actually, even when I'm in the flow, but especially so after a long break. The blank canvas, though it's always a thrill to behold..touch..smell..feel.. also fills me with trepidation. Often, I will pencil in a sketch pretty fast... and then flounder, agonising about committing it to paint. When I was young, as far back as I can remember, I would always have a sketch book (we used to call them drawing books, back then.. now, in our Americanised world, it has become an "art journal), which I constantly kept filling, page after page of drawings, watercolour paintings, of anything that caught my fancy.. I don't know when I stopped carrying a sketch book around with me, but somewhere along the way, I did. Somewhere along the way Life caught up with me, dealt me a blow or two, and robbed me of my sketch book.

Now, I think I will get my old companion back.. and fill it again with what my heart feels, what my mind sees.. There are so many wondrous things..the myriad flowers, leaves, rocks, stones on the ground..the sun piercing through cracks in the tree canopies, filtering through leaves.. I love to muse and wonder how to capture those fleeting images with my paint and brush..how exactly can I create that translucent green-gold tint..what stroke should my brush make to capture that impression left in my mind, my soul..

Sunrises, sunsets, the deep black-blue of the night.. dogs howling in the night (as they're doing now).. the dance of light and colour and darkness and sounds..bird calls, a child's cry, a group bhajan filtering in through the window.. All of these always fill me with thrill and excitement deep inside myself.. How do you paint a dog's howl?

I realise that no matter what blows life deals me with, no matter how many times my soul shrivels up and I lose my sketch book, no matter if my art is good or bad or great or nothing..this is the road I was meant to be on.. While sometimes I may lose my way, and sometimes I will just sit on a wayside bench and simply watch the days go by, eventually this is the journey I must take.

One thing of note though.. I have noticed that when I'm in painting mode, I stop scribbling my bouts of poetry, and vice versa.. I wonder why that is so..

The Silent Canvas Of My Mind, My Heart

It's like a dream bubble. Whether I sit still in a chair by the window, or cross legged on the floor in the balcony, by which tree branches rustle and wave, where crows come and perch and peer at me curiously, or a squirrel darts across, its fur the colour of the bark where it races up and down all day long, or a koel calling long and sweet. And my mind begins smearing, green, gold, red, blue, creating vivid, vibrant pictures on my silent canvas..

I try and make alive the colours that I see, the voices that I hear, in my world outside, in my world inside..fusing them both together..in my silent canvas.

I've been existing.. Being born and reborn.. Life after life, age after age.. Carrying my silent canvas in my heart, in my mind, in whichever direction my life lines twisted and turned. I look up at the sky and see clouds skidding by, the paintbrush in my mind paints them in their greys, in their sunlit golds and pinks. I walk on the cracked footpath, where each day I exercise my body, my mind, where an old man sits crunched, his claw hand emerging hesitantly, his rheumy eyes looking expectantly for the coin I give sometimes, while the paintbrush of my heart paints his yellow eyes, his worn teeth, his beaten face, his crumpled limbs, all in a heap, by a scatter of fallen leaves as withered as him, on the silent canvas of my mind.

I turn into a busy street.. Everyone is rushing, moving, pushing, scrambling.. Only the trees stand still, rooted to their stony spot, ignored, forgotten by the throngs.. I stand rooted with them, slowly watching the sun setting, sprinkling its crimson dust in the sky, on the leaves, on the ground.. And, while another day dies in its blood red hues, the street lights come alive, one by one in rows, spilling their yellow pools of light on the passers by hurrying home.

And I am the tree watching their faces shrouded in the half lit dark.. My silent canvas hurries along with them for a while, wondering which path they will take, wondering what their destination will be. Wondering what destiny I will give them in the silent canvas in my heart, in my mind.

I pause for a while, then take my solitary path into the silent canvas of my life... The dream bubble where I exist... Green, gold, red, blue...  Life after life... Age after age.

Curtain of anonymity

He let her in
Suddenly, one day
They speak to each other
Through the curtain
Of anonymity
Like explorers do
Of discovering new
Unknown lands

He opened the door
Suddenly, one day
Inviting her into
His unknown world
And she walked
Right in

She didn't turn around to see
If he had bolted the door behind her
Or had left it wide open
She was engrossed in learning
His unknown world
Through the curtain
Of anonymity

Reaching for the sky

You steal into my thoughts
Like the patter of raindrops
In the silver of this monsoon night
Gently awakening my senses

Wet earth, wet boughs, wet leaves -
I breathe it all in
Letting them envelop me
In a quiescent embrace

The trees sigh, letting out
Their breath, so long captive
Within their hard bark
Now peeling, discarding

Revealing renewed limbs
Shimmering in the rain
Dancing in the breeze
Reaching for the sky

I Eye My I

I Eye My I

My I Eyes My Mind

My Mind Eyes My I

Wrapped Like A Rind

Around My Mind

That Eyes My Eyes

That Lives In My I

That Lives In My Mind

With Eyes That Eye

My I In My Mind

Which Eyes My Mind

In My I Eye My I