Untitled

she sits across the table and
watches him inhale the late afternoon
sun ray…

Between words and silence there is a space – a chink where no word

has begun and where silence is already

rustling her skirts – a fissure where the absence of

silence and lack of words gives rise to iridescent heat.

This is the skin of reality. It is thin. It is unreal.

The butterfly

Bougainville hues in choppy flight
across the yawning expanse
of the patient heavens.

http://paintedpenguins.wordpress.com/2012/06/05/the-butterfly/

Rain in Delhi
http://delhibaroque.wordpress.com/2012/06/03/the-djinns/
The djinns

William Dalrymple calls Delhi the City of Djinns in his book of the same name. The book brings Delhi to Delhi-zens in many unexpected ways. It also underscores the experience of Delhi; never the same for two people, never the same in two seasons, the city changes faces ever so often.

Delhi is itself a djinn, almost!

http://delhibaroque.wordpress.com/2012/06/03/the-djinns/

new silence

This is how the silence begins –
in desolate noons stolen from barren
landscapes nobody visits –

www.paintedpenguins.wordpress.com