Archives for the month of: November, 2014

O winds!
O dancing wild winds!
Your kisses storm through my restlessness,
I’m alive in each cell
full of joy and levity…

We are here
amidst your expansive breath…
How you beckon me
with your touch so tender!

This nippy caress
and rustling leaves,
my hair loose and heavy,
it’s weight rises and falls …

When the crescent moon rises in the night sky,
the Orion’s Belt sparkles like a jewelled comb in the glittering night skies…

My breath deepens,
the long slow inhalations draw in the ocean aromas with great satisfaction and thirst…

Quenched and cradled
by the rhythms of the ebbing tides,
I surrender and lay afloat
inside an expansive ocean of wonder !

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अरे समीरा!
हा नाचणारा
सैराट वारा,
तुझ्या चुंबनाने
वाधली वार्यातून,
मला अस्वस्थ करणारे
हे तुफान ।

हा प्रतैक
पेशी-पेशीतला
जिवंतपणा
उल्हासित करितो
माझ्या शरिरात
चमत्कारिक उदय ।

आज आम्ही
इथे
तुझ्या अथांग
श्वासाच्या मिठीत
तु खुणावितोस
मला मृदुल स्पर्शाने ।

ही गुलाबी थंडी
ही सलसलणारी पाने
माझे मोकले केसांचे
हे वजन
घटने

भारी होणे ।

आजच्या गडद आकाशात
ही चंद्रकोर

एका रत्नजडित
कंगव्या सारखे
चमकणारे
हे तारे ।

माझा सखोल
मंद श्वास आकर्र्शीतो
तुझ्या महासागराचा सुगंध ।

ही तहान समुद्राच्या
आहोटी व भरतीच्या तालात
त्रुप्त झाली ।

मी शरणागती
पूरग्रस्त शयनासारखी
तुझ्या अथांग शरिरावर
आश्चर्यचकित होऊन
मंत्रमुग्ध होते ।

कवियत्री:✨ अश्विनी प्रताप पवार 🌺

Poems, written this morning, as I lay upon the pristine, sandy Chennai beaches overlooking the Bay of Bengal.

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Love’s Gong

When years ago I lay in a cupboard
Crying and wailing
Inside and out

An all heart man reached out
From the book I held
And cradled me

Strings of words woven together
A hammock that buoyed me
From falling down

I walked out of that cupboard strong
Dressed in tenderness
And love’s gong

~ A poem by Hema Agnihotri Bharadwaj

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प्रेमाची तास

अनेक वर्षांपूर्वि
मी बंद कपाटात लपून
ओक्साबोक्शी
रडत होते ।

जेव्हा अचानक
एका दयालु माणसाने
लिहीलेल्या पुस्तकाने
मला सांत्वन दिले ।

गुंफलेले अनमोल शब्द
झोपाला बनुन
घसर्टे पाउल सावरून
मी हवेत तरंगले ।

आज त्या कपाटातून
मी खंबीर होऊन
जगाच्या सामोरी येते
वात्सल्याचा झगा व
प्रेमाची तास वाजवित ।

~ Marathi translation of ‘Love’s Gong’ by Ashwini Pratap Pawar

When I heard that Thich Nhat Hanh, the Mindfulness Monk, was in the hospital and his companions thought he may be passing on, I was taken back many years and a poem sprung forth. I shared the poem with my friend Ashwini (fellow artist here on Artisdates). She felt moved by the poem and her own artistic work on a gong installation at her home and decided to translate the poem into Marathi, her native. Here is the English version and then the Marathi version. Ashwini’s vocal rendition of her Marathi translation is beautiful and makes the poem come alive. Even if you do not know the language, the sounds of the words will surely make you feel the energy of the poem.

Love’s Gong

When years ago I lay in a cupboard
Crying and wailing
Inside and out

An all heart man reached out
From the book I held
And cradled me

Strings of words woven together
A hammock that buoyed me
From falling down

I walked out of that cupboard strong
Dressed in tenderness
And love’s gong

Ashwini’s Marathi Translation:

प्रेमाची तास वाजवित

अनेक वर्षांपूर्वि
मी बंद कपाटात लपून
ओक्साबोक्शी
रडत होते ।

जेव्हा अचानक
एका दयालु माणसाने
लिहीलेल्या पुस्तकाने
मला सांत्वन दिले ।

गुंफलेले अनमोल शब्द
झोपाला बनुन
घसर्टे पाउल सावरून
मी हवेत तरंगले ।

आज त्या कपाटातून
मी खंबीर होऊन
जगाच्या सामोरी येते
वात्सल्याचा झगा व
प्रेमाची तास वाजवित ।

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November, 9th, 2014

This evening, I saw for the first time, a dance recital by Janaki Rangarajan. It was as if an Apsara, a heavenly damsel had descended upon earth from Lord Indra’s court.

This is a dancer whose body proportions seem in alignment with the codes of Shilpa-Shastra. When she sits into her Aramandi, our eyes enter the perfect geometry of a circle within a square. A rooted dancer, with toned muscled limbs, vitality upon her skin, lucidity in her eyes, sensuousness brimming yet contained inside subtlety and exuberance.

There was a handful of audience in the recital hall, and yet her entire being spoke with a fire that illumined the large vacuum with scintillating luminosity. Her resonance had a sparkle of an otherworldly sort. A heavenly danseuse, once chiseled onto an ancient temple frieze, she momentarily steps out to share her vitality, her breath, her bosom, her vulva and her angular sensuality with us mortals. She is a fireball rolling inside a geometric form of a square, a circle, and a symmetry that enters the Bindu, the central singular point, with an inwardness that pleases all present in Lord Indra’s court alone!

In stillness and silence, her feet lock together, big toe upon big toe, held inside a kaya-madhya-sutra, the central, invisible, ethereal, silvery thread. Her skin, luminous like milk, and fragrant like Lavender. She is poetry incarnate.

Her physical body is a puppet of her inner mindscape. It moves, breathes, hisses, and pulsates in a state of trance, of wild abandon and oblivion. She invites you to enter woman to woman, man to woman, into an erotic world of fever and desire, and yet simultaneously mirrors to us, the potential of our human birth!

Not a hair out of place, her eyes bold and stressing a portal into the other world. Her beckoning lips, lined with the scarlet red blood of life. Her earrings, bejeweled chandeliers embedded with sparkling stones, birthing rainbows in every twirl and swirl.

Her eyes lined with the black soot of a bat cave. Her long hair, well groomed like the silken tail of a black stallion, with three diamond flower motifs speckled, equidistantly like the constellation of the Orion’s belt, upon a dark night sky.

Her body wrapped in fine ebony black and crimson silk. The central fan adorning her vulva is a palette of earthy browns, reds and ochers. The red alta accentuates her sinuous feet and fingers. Her long nails painted electric reddish-pink like the metallic shell of a beetle from the Amazonian rain forest.

A carved emblem of a temple altar with a bejeweled Goddess at its center, hung loosely just beneath her round bosom. It was held back by just a little stitch upon her silken blouse. A delicate necklace like the even grains of a golden hued corncob, frames her long neck. Diamonds glitter upon both her nostrils, and one hung from the center of her nose divide, drawing us in towards her red lips. Sensuous and enticing, she stood upon a dimly lit stage. The music unspun its magic, while we waited with bated breath. And then she danced …

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There’s nothing impossible for God,
the one we call Mother and Father,
and various other names as well.
The will of the One moves this body.
Into it breathes, strength and life,
beats as pulse and moves as blood,
enlivens as intellect and overwhelms
as gratitude, as wonder and as joy.
On this day, my father stepped out
of a room grown stale, far too used,
to savour fresh air and a difference
in the embrace of another space.
My mother looks upon him in wonder,
and I, as his son, am indeed pleased.
That which ails him is on a break.
We gather by his side to celebrate!