Grief

Workers on their Way Home, 1913

by Edvard Munch

Grief, a solid rock

Lodged in the quarry’s pit.

Immovable, unbreakable

Coated with a thousand nights.

Burrow around it all you like,

Wander above for hours on end

But one has to,

At the end of however distracted a day,

Clamber wearily down,

Down into that solitary cave.

A cave so full,

Full of that stubborn solid rock

Lodged in your quarry’s pit

Letting no air in, no light.

How many little people?

Pressed against

How many monstrous rocks?

A wretched underground orb.

खिड़कियां

Evening Wind by Edward Hopper (1921)

दीवार में खिड़की
खिड़की में रात
खिड़की की रात
दीवार से उजली।

दीवार की रात
में भी एक खिड़की
फैली हुई विशाल
सिरहाने से लेकर
छत तक चढ़ आयी खिड़की।

खुद परछाईं
पर चौगुनी खिड़की
हर कोने से खींची सी
भीतर इसके
और परछाइयां
पंखे की हौली धड़कन
और भागती हुई एक और छोटी सी खिड़की।

रात घनी हो
दीवारें कई हों
पर खुलती रहें
ऐसी खिड़कियां
उजली सी
लहराती सी
चारों ओर फैलती ब्रह्माण्ड सी।

Ghanshyam

Radha & Krishna Walking at Night

Folio from the Tehri Garhwal series of the Gita Govind (1775-80)
Punjab Hills, Kingdom of Kangra or Guler

Wept my eyes blue,
Looking for Ghanshyam.
I had him beside me
And now he is gone.

Standing at the crossroads,
Squinting in the dark,
I conjure blue shadows,
Turning to mist, each one.

Is he playing one of his tricks?
Making my heart so sink?
Am I abandoned for good?
Or to follow him into the distant woods?

Waiting at the crossroads,
I think I will rest my tired blue eyes.
Maybe as dawn breaks,
I will find him once again,
by my side.

A Dream?

Separation II (1896) by Edvard Munch

In foul togetherness,

We walked weary,

Of weather,

Of purpose,

And of each other.

Mud clung to our feet,

Our eyes did not meet,

Doors you opened,

Were not for me.

My breath split in half,

Coloured the vision a sickly grey.

You stood apart,

Pointing the way.

At the edge of indifference,

I would be hung,

Half-breath

And scarce a tongue.

  

The Itch

Thought (1895) by Auguste Rodin 

That old itch

To walk away

Is back.

That old itch

To walk away

Without a stomp, kick or a scream,

Is back.

That old itch

To walk away

With nothing but

The smoothening of all furrows,

The lengthening of measured breath,

The swing of the loose end of a borrowed ascetic robe.

That old itch

Is back again.

Clutch the ground

With twenty toes.

Ball your fists,

Lock those nails.

Let the face crease

With every passing breeze.

Don’t let placid waters

Drown the flickering dream.

Beware,

That old itch

Is back again.

The Panting-Pacing Eye

Impression Sunrise, 1872 

by Claude Monet

Days scorched
Dry and bare.
Caught like a fly in a web.
A pacing-panting eye
On a swiveling neck.

How far can one go?
Thirsting new skies.
Flicking old ties.

At least for a few silent moments
To peer into the clouded depths
of a breeze-creased lake so blue,
To feel the sway of water-weeds grey
And the kickswim of the froglet stray.

To see a lone cloud or two
Afloat on its surface.
And later that night
The molten red moon bleed all over it.

Then maybe,
The panting-pacing eye too
Would learn to still itself.
To hold tenderly in its waters, all life,
With a loving and patient sigh.

Shuttling

Potrait of Dora Maar , 1937

by Pablo Picasso

Shuttling between
Two halves of myself
Day, afternoon and night.

Before a moment of laughter ceases
Hark, the other peg.
And as the head finds a spot of rest
Rings the parting bell.

I rush this way and that
With clumsy entries and exits.
Trailing behind disappointed faces
And too much unfinished business.

Shuttling between
Two halves of myself
Day, afternoon and night.
I am quite certain,
Long ago, on this very ride,
I have let slip a part of myself. 

To Be Alone

Party in Paris 

by Max Beckmann, 1947

To be alone isn’t an emptying of the room,

Faces vanishing into the night,

Walking other lanes,

Turning other corners.

To be alone isn’t voices no longer speaking your tongue

Abuzz, alien, apart.

To be alone isn’t just eyes turned away

Smiles beaming elsewhere.

To be alone perhaps

Is my steps slowing down,

Toward.

Across.

To be alone perhaps

is a sealing of the lips.

A turning blind with open eyes.

The smile left unused at the dresser.

To be alone perhaps

 is to leave the full room

And step into the wall.