The Gentle Mother
I do not remember how this poem came to be. I had an image of a gothic veil in my mind.
The image is of a dry lake somewhere in India. I took this many years ago.
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Teaching / Spectacle
I will try to address what I have been observing and experiencing in the past few years. Since the complete domination over attention and will was established by the techno-hegemony of social media and its ilk, the act of conversation has either vanished or has taken on a sinister shape
A Forest Called Northstar
Banyans, and Neems, and Mangoes, and Jamuns. A forest called Northstar. I was once lost in a forest, in a manner of speaking. Dawn turned to dusk in a reversal that came without warning. Aranyaka. What is the point of a forest if it is not enchanted? Where dreams are
A Veena Called Northstar
A melody, a harmony, a rhythm, and a poem. A Veena called Northstar. A sequence of chapters forms a book, a sequence of classes forms a school day, a sequence of units makes a curriculum, and a sequence of musical notes makes a melody. And when there are underlying notes
Lynchian Phantasmagoria
A Phantasmagoria of colours, and sounds, and smells. A reverie called Northstar. "Where we come from, the birds sing a pretty song and there's always music in the air..." The dance of the little man from Twin Peaks is a mad, surreal phantasmagoric scene from David