Third Eye Awake

Anyone who has known me before 1998 will describe me as an artist and a writer. In fact,when I said I was going to pursue my writing, my sister was surprised because she saw me as an artist first. Around 1998 was when I decided to put my art on hold and go full force with my writing. So, it's hard to imagine for years I hadn't done more than doodling. I was getting nervous drawing something with my daughter. I began to envy other artists even more.

Last year I started taking an art class and remembered that it was about time to return to it . The timing was perfect - while my daughter was at her dance class, I could be downstairs taking an art class. We covered different mediums from oil pastels to water colors to acrylics.

It was exciting and daunting. Sometimes I just kept looking at the subject while my instructor tells me to look for shading or depth. She'll say "there's some red in there," while painting a dark green forest. I didn't get it. But I listen to her and keep plugging away, not really sure. Somehow it comes together!  The best part is that I've awakened my artistic senses. I see colors, layers and shades in the world.It's stunning! The craziest part for me is that the awakening of my artistic side and dealing with my artist's block has manifested itself into my poetry.

Third Eye Awake

When the third eye awakens,

it can’t be closed again.

It allows the scientists to see

the multiple dimensions of the universe

as it grows inside and around us.

Some secretly acknowledge they

can see electrical pulses around bodies.

Then they quickly wipe their spectacles.

For philosophers who have been awakened ,

the secrets of life are boldly

displayed like neon signs. Unfortunately,

the signs compete for attention, leaving them

to wander searching for the right message to heed.

The artist’s third eye converts the world into hues

and textures not seen by the two eyes.

A pool of water solidifies into a raw silk cloth

rippling in brilliant turquoises and blues.

Their hands must now recreate the vibrancy they’ve seen

struggling over and over again to capture it

exactly.

When the poet opens the third eye,

the poet can see the words are floating by

and pulls out a lasso to bring each word onto the page,

securing its hold,

then releasing those that do not fit; always search for a new one.

The third eye guides our spirits into corners unseen,

and our bodies will soon follow.

 

Ars longa, vita brevis

Art is long, life is short. 

Life is probably shorter if you're a plant in my house. My husband has the green thumb, and I have two opposable thumbs. I'll do whatever you tell me to do with plants, but I don't have that instinct and drive to plant bulbs, collect annuals and do all those things you're supposed to do in spring and falls. However, I do find pulling weeds very meditative though. 

An aunt in Canada gave us a jasmine plant root to plant. She's an avid gardner and her jasmines were growing fabulously and she had enough to share. Her front porch smelled like "raat ranis" (jasmines that bloom at night). So,we smuggled the root across the border and planted it in a pot. And, that baby bloomed! My husband put it in the bathroom, where it would get moisture and humidity it needed, and it lasted 2 years. There would be a blossom or two every few days during the summer. 

I was inspired! I wrote the poem below and shared it at a book reading in January.

I'm not sure what happened this winter/spring, but the jasmine plant didn't make it. I tried this week to resuscitate it by repotting it with Miracle Gro, as advised by the aunt. But my husband's telling me it's dead and to get over it. I still think we should give it a fighting chance though I do think

Thus, here's a poem to remember smuggled jasmine plant.

Scent Memory

The white jasmines bloom at night in the summer,

just three precious blossoms at a time.

The plant was a gift and the bathroom is the best spot to capture moisture.

So it sits in a terracotta pot on the edge of the beige soaking tub.

The slightly open window allows summer wind to freshen the space.

As I open the bathroom door, the aroma of fresh jasmine mixed with humid air

whisks me to Ahmedabad, India,

stirring memories of a childhood evening.

We were family meeting for the first time,

making instant connections without the customary formalities

and introductions. They knew us already.

Aunts, uncles and cousins were excited

to show off their world to the crisp American children.

We take a stroll in the warm June evening for ice cream.

The Queens of the Night are in bloom and we’re wrapped in a fragrant air.

We pass other bungalows in the neighborhood. The bushes in the large compounds

are sprinkled with delicate red and white flowers.

At the ice cream stand, we mill around and read the flavors on the white board

under the stark fluorescent lights.

We’re confused, looking for comfort in a mint chocolate chip,

but we choose from flavors that leave a ambrosial tastes in your mouth

when you say them aloud.

Saffron pistachio

Rose and cardamom

Cashew and raisins

Tutti frutti

Mosquitoes and moths hover around the lights.

We dance and wave them away. Uncles joke about “moth flavors”

when one nosedives into a cup and tease us with a mosquito option.

I scribe this adventure into a journal,

complete with a sketch of the insects and the ice cream.

As a lively group, our voices rise and we kick up dust along the footpaths

returning to my grandparents house.

When a breeze does arrive, it doesn’t break the heat,

but tropical trees rustle and the swing in front yard rocks gently.

I turn off the bathroom light and close the door, leave that memory inside

where it belongs with the jasmine blossoms.

Poetry Reading in Philadelphia

When I received this invitation to read for Philadelphia Poets event last November, I knew that 2012 was going to be the year for my writing. What a way to kick it off! Now, if I could figure out what I should read, I'll be all set! 

~*~* ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Philadelphia Poets Presents its Annual Ethnic Voices Poetry Reading at the Manayunk/Roxborough Art Center (M/RAC)

This program will feature: Manya Bean, Lynn Blue, Mel Brake, Ashini Desai, Maria Fama,  Emiliano Martin, and Al Tacconelli

The poets represent many different cultures—Greek, African-American, Indian, Italian, and Spanish—and while their experiences either as immigrants or the descendants of immigrants are similar, the expressions of their feelings are unique and individual, and their approaches to the writing of poetry, varied and powerful. In some cases, poetry will be read in translation together with the English.

419 Green Lane (rear), Philadelphia

Sunday, February 12, 2012, 3:00 to 5:30 p.m.

Inspirations

I'd be remiss not to have a post this month for April is Poetry Month. In O Magazine,they had a great quotes by poets on where do poems come from.

I've been asked this before - "How do you know what to write? Where do you get the ideas?"

I like Timothy Liu's quote: "When you go to bed, you can't force a dream, right? In fact, the dream is a gift because it's a surprise. There are different theories about where dreams come from, but a general one is that the day's residue often becomes the little grain of sand around which the dream will then build. i think a poem is like that."

To me, poems are little birds floating around my head. I just have to stop and listen to them.
Literally.
I often close my eyes and type, just listening to the thoughts and words being fed to me.

I've had times when I cannot write poetry and I know it's due to much noise in my life. Until I can resolve or push the noise away, I cannot hear the words.


So poetry is all around us - the stars, the moon, struggles of humanity, our child's eyes, our pasta sauce.

Word Masala Poetry Anthology

A great way to start the new year!

I have two poems included in the Word Masala Poetry Anthology. It is published in the UK and was edited by Yogesh Patel. I haven't gotten my copy yet, but recognize some of the poets on board and know their reputations as writers. So, please support the publisher.

Moon Child

I'm a Cancerian, which means the moon is my ruling planet. Actually, it's not technically a planet,but astrologers don't get into the details. They recognize it for it's power.

I do know that it's the inspiration to a lot of my poetry and artwork. I never get tired of staring at the moon and trying to understand why it's there. All I know is that we're blessed to have the moon. I've made the moon an insolent seductress, innocent bystander, anthromorphed with power and emotions in my poems. I've sketched pictures of moonlit nights and trees.

I recently set my alarm for 2:41 a.m. on Dec 21, 2010 because it was the night of the lunar eclipse. The moon blushed red and I had to see. Once I saw the moon, I had to write. Moon, stars, sun - all seep into my poems because it touches a universal nerve. I race home on evenings with full moons and crane my neck to see the full vibrant moon.

The moon is such a central part of human history. Full of mystery thought full of confidence. It changes, but it's reliable. Children are told stories of the 'man in the moon'. In India, it's common for children to call it Chanda Mama (Uncle Moon) because of its strong presence. The poem below captures my daughter's preschool references to the moon shapes - banana, watermelon and orange.


Stage Lights


When life doesn’t make sense, I look
up at the moon.
It’s really just a foam ball
hung by a string

poked through a velvet cloth
draped over a cardboard theater
made just for us.

Tilt the lights to reveal a banana moon.
Turn it more to show the watermelon moon.
Oh, just flash the light --
it’s an orange moon.

So now I feel better knowing
that I’m only driving around in circles
and if I want to, I can lift the velvet
cloak and take a peek outside.

Moonlight Masquerade

Moonlight Masquerade


Moonlight is a naughty decadent light,
A brazen masquerade
stealing the sun's glow,
breaking the mutually agreed upon rules
between the morn and the night.

Dropping blue and silver
luminescence where there should be
shadows is the violation of the stated agreement.