Rests in olives. A table laden, workman-like
(Holding a knife, two glasses of wine) unpolished.
Chardin, butchered here, has spared us the peeling
The unravelling, the nod to the inevitable
Dying expected of the still-life. The original
Is large, my imitation tiny, and thus the student
Is taught to rely on craft. It isn't genius
That will save us, it seems, but knowing how
To assemble the small things, in the
Now, in the here, with whatever life brings.
Again, such astonishing depth accomplished in such a taut frame. I'm learning so much by reading your poems, Giti, mostly about inner seeing.
ReplyDeleteYou are kind, Bhaswati :) Your own poems speak so eloquently about the inner seeing!
DeleteAssembling the small things - 13 years of daily riyaaz!
ReplyDelete'These fragments have I shored against my ruins' :D And 13 years has certainly done its bit to stop me from falling apart!
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