Journey of Nirvair Singh to Burma and Thailand attempts to capture the grace of the underdog.
This citying of landscape
This stunting of trees
These hovels of dens
Those pygmied men
This convent of indulgence
This dark habit
Those spires of intrigue
This love become date
Slapping bodies fornicate
This bonsai passion
That herculean fashion
Trees of girth
Eyes of mirth
Forest of flame
How do I say;
love’s in the air
and I love you dame.
Birds fly at night, blindfolded
wings gently row, darkness
has no perch then or now
sacred trees now scared
fabled wind scarred
peace is dove-corpse
gift wrapped, dream sandstorm
Birds fly at night…
February is one enchantress.
on her heels meditative jan, wispy march in braid.
sprinkles of mustard leading to homesteads.
adolescent stalks of wheat quietly sway to a cumulus harp.
nascent life bursting on mulberry tree
a lone jand* enacts the Nataraja*; The dance of creation begins. Life has begun to seed.
a flock of Ibises flies past; ime for moon to rise. sun to rest. nocturn has its own secrets.
Let dreams be woven.
Jand* tree: P. Cineraria
Nataraja*: a depiction of the god Shiva as the cosmic dancer who performs his divine dance to destroy a weary universe and make preparations for the god Brahma to start the process of creation. (Wikipedia)
My other blog: nirlep.wordpress.com
Posting January in May sounds out-of-synch but what has been started must be completed. So here goes…
January is a see-saw. One bright morning and it preens like spring. One foggy day and it goes into a huddle of contemplative calm. An in-between month of neither here nor there. To an optimist it is best of both.
Wheat fields now a bed-spread of shy green.
Mustard stands high on stilettos as if…
leaves leave to find new abode
inexorable the march of time
the fading fades
color arrives the fruit of labor
we can only hope to be there
as it happens
Curtain rings on December with this post. The snippets form a miniscule part of what Punjab is all about, visually and culturally. Behind a thick mantle of fog life has been growing. Silently.
Cotton pods which were plucked pre-mature have been sun bathing before bursting open.
A farmer heading towards fields look back at me clicking and gently smiles. Another one is busy spraying fertilizer.
Hardy plants manage to thrive in-spite of weedicides.
Trees shed leaves and reflect.
Clothes on innovative clothes lines add to the optimism that sun is just around the corner.
Birds find new habitat.
Nature weaves a new raiment.
Children learn alphabets of life basking in the sun sitting by wide open fields of Punjab.
Wonder struck, I move on, clicking.
Well friends the story continues. Cold has gotten intens”er”. Fog rules. Sun, inspite of burning billions of billions of billions of calories barely manages to show. Wheat has been sown. Farmers get up early to check their fields and drive out stray cattle. I was clicking an exceptionally bright dawn when I noticed someone walk towards me. It was Gopal Singh, a farmer. With three dogs in tow. Cautious of playful canines I accosted Gopal Singh and then walked with him into the fields. A tree on the horizon, gently combed furrows on land, extravagant gold of sun made this into a sight to behold. Barely had I finished clicking the scene when Gopal Singh stepped into the view finder. I clicked again and found my “tree of man”.