5-6 February 2015

  IMG_7135  IMG_7032 IMG_6503

 Earthen pots scattered

A myriad of clay vessels

Holding none but air

Like waves through lungs that seek not

Hope in thin air travelled frail


Colours everywhere

Spilling their thoughtless pleasure

Tickled eyes’ senses

Inner feelings slightly touched

Missed a tidal wave of heat


A banyan tree stood

Its prop roots waved to the wind

That caressed its gait

Waist uncovered I walked on

Never bearing roots to wave


Birds flocked to their nests

Their shrill piping welcomed trees

That spread out in warmth

A scent of a warmth in mind

Met with chilly happenings


Sun set in pale creek

While mountains blazed in glory

Echoing skies’ fire

Fire that had burnt anew

Simmered under mind’s cool ice


Yellow gator crawled

Thirsting for sea in low tide

As pale lights flickered

Early shades strong had shimmered

Till mind’s tide from them withdrew


Darkness crept on creek

But light actioned its yellow

Eerily sparkling

Strangeness perfused all in heart

That no artefact could warm


False green meadows stretched

On lily white steps that shone

Artificial blend

Welding would not heal a heart

Which fragments timeless shattered


IMG_7262 IMG_7283



Requiem in steel

Requiem in steel

27-28 January 2015

 IMG_5803 (2)


Sun glints on fire blades

Alit roads of metal speak

Of cuttings of light

The scissors took to my mind

And carved away silent paths


A window now shone

With sparkle of steely might

Extending below

A steely will stretched ahead

Breaching old oaths of softness


Sun suddenly fled

Leaving panes engulfed in dark

With shadows of light

Half-truths like half-light stood stark

On a backdrop of intent


A shimmering pane

Welcomed eyes that sparkled back

In the dying light

Remnants of memories lurched

Towards forgotten future


Darkness fell silent

On surfaces of sleek sheet

That bore no traces

In heart that loses itself

A steel-clad requiem plays


IMG_5803 (3)



After the rains

After the rains

19 January 2015


White flags soared in sky

Flapping in winds that tore through

Night’s inky shadow

Thoughts seeping like creeper’s shade

Dug channel through oblivion


The moon turned wane face

Its soft gaze blazing anew

The sparkling still lakes

Like diamonds cutting through panes

Memories shone through the grey


The wind ripped through hills

That stood in face of Tempest

Like pillars of clay

Mudslide swept through all corners

Leaving no memory sane


Broken umbrella

Lay writhing from eye of storm

Jagged shards flaunted

Like pieces of glass in soul

Slick words thrown like knives are etched


Morning woke in eyes

Sounds of soothing daybreak rose

A pitter-patter

Like birds feet on a wet ledge

As remains played loud in chest


Glorious sunrise

Shaking off remnants of storm

Warmed Earth’s sleepy crust

Early day’s soft soothing moods

Enchanted all living souls


A bird chanted flights

As it stretched its wings to dry

To soar it prepared

In year’s anticipation

Shaking off rain I called out


Bring to me the light

And dispel all doubts’ darkness

As sun beams on sky

Winter rains that flooded Earth

Would pierce in mind a new seed





The Lady at the Bar (5)

The Lady at the Bar (5)

24 December 2014

both in rain

He kisses her wet eyes attempting to erase the sadness with his kisses, lips pressed on her eyelids that quiver at his touch and open up revealing the inky pools that stare into his soul. He feels her go to that special place where they had been before, their first encounter when he sat on that rock watching her as she cried and he attempted to console her while the sheep grazed oblivious to their interaction. He kisses her on the tip of her nose and says softly “Memories, we all collect, carry them with us. Maybe we are just a mirror, perhaps to reflect on, passing to someone else…”

His voice trails off as the tears well in her eyes again. “Hush, he says, hush” as he holds her closer still “rain coming in, can’t you smell it?” He takes her hand “Come, let’s go up to the porch, watch the storm pass and light a candle, or two”.

She shrugs, incapable of speaking and he watches puzzled as she does not react to his touch anymore “Was I off somewhere, or just too high?” He feels her reticence, knows where her thoughts go now as he watches them be drawn to the cliff.

“Why do you have to go and leave me every time? I hate you every time you do that and am not able to bring myself back to that initial bliss when I knew not of this curse. Why does that dark brooding thing call you so?” she ends, voice down to a hoarse plea.

“You are my lighthouse” he says with a half-smile, hoping he will pacify her as he had done before referring to that day on the beach when they had come back from sailing and she said she wanted to spend the night in the lighthouse and he had said he wanted to spend the night in her for she was his lighthouse.

“And the sea calls you so” she says bitterly, refusing to be moved by his reference to their intimacy that night.

“It always calls me” he says softly and as she continues to press her lips stubbornly, refusing to yield he insists “you know this, yes?”

“How would we watch the storm pass” she spits out in anger and bitterness. “The storm, she calls you too that you may meet her at sea. She blows out the candles and beckons you out of the porch, out of that insipid haven.” Her voice chokes on the words that barely make it to her lips as breath fails her. She draws it in hungrily in a hiss and then calms herself down before adding sadly “You were made for the roughness of the sea, a son of warriors, their blood courses through your veins and pulses within your thoughts. The lighthouse must remain at earth leading the way for lost souls in search of a new found land while you throw your net to pick up those gone astray. Meet me at sea she calls out while the sea echoes her enthralling seductive invocation of hearts….

Her voice trails off again between bitterness and sorrow as the tears force their way through her eyelids that she presses tightly in vain.

He lifts her head and kisses her tenderly trying to pry open her stubbornly set lips as she fights the urge to give in to his tenderness. He speaks to her without words “with a tender kiss upon your lips, I look into your eyes, have I ever misled you, taken you astray, as to what I live for and perhaps, someday, will die for?”

She finally gives in and returns his kiss passionately and they stay rocking together before he moves slowly away from her his eyes roaming over her “Undress slowly. Let me see you, in all you have. This time may be my last time.”

It is absurd that he must go back again and again to the sea despite how much she tells him of her fear for him from it but there seems to be no remedy to that ailment of theirs

  • It seems Viking sailors always thought it was their last time on land before they set to the sea, following the sun she says undressing, almost in slow-motion.

We have much strayed from this cabin with the grass growing tall all around it inviting and foreboding all at once she thinks. Why is it that on firm land he always chose to be drawn to the cliff and its roaring sea?

  • Does she call you so that you cannot take your eyes away from her, not even for me?, she says turning towards him her face that she had kept averted towards the outline of the cliff.
  • Why do you ask? You always knew where my love lived. Is it not enough that I come back to you? The sea, she always calls for me. Can you not feel her power? Woman, you are enough, what I come back on shore for, but never ask me to compare. There is where I shall die, drowning but fear not, it has already taken me enough.

She looks at him with a mixture of sadness and defiance

  • Yes I do feel her power, roaring, demanding, thunder in her voice as she cries, mine!, her thousand voices coursing through your blood even as you hold me and I hold you back, fingers groping reaching out but holding on to nothing. I feel your heart, like the tides, that ebbs and flows as it is drawn to sea and washed ashore to me while I lay waiting in every dark of the night casting my rays on to the inky black, eyes intent on her as she roars and you are somewhere there with her but unseen to me.

She pauses and looks back at the tip of the rock on the cliff, so similar to another cliff where she had indeed stood waiting for him to come back from his many journeys on the sea. It seemed that they were both cursed that everywhere they went, land and sea mingled so tightly that they were never able to keep away from either.

She turns back towards him

  • Do you remember when we first sailed together? She was calm and silent then for you had chosen to forget her for a while as we laughed, foolishly in love, playing on the deck, basking in the sun. I never really understood then how much of her coursed through your veins

She walks towards him, the setting sun casting playful shadows on her nakedness, veiling and unveiling as he watches her torn between his two loves and angry at her for attempting to make him choose.

“Remember though” she says as she puts her arms around him and draws him closer to her, laying his head on her bosom “that she is ice-clad and will never give you my warmth”.

Her arms hold him tightly and as her heat engulfs him, she feels his body relax against her but she knows she is probably fighting a battle that was already lost. He lifts his head towards her and she too is engulfed in the roaring sea that courses through his eyes.

both together her half undressed

Read here previous part of story “The Lady at the Bar (4)”  https://geethaprodhom.wordpress.com/2014/12/02/the-lady-at-the-bar-4/

Beauty in fusion

Beauty in fusion

December 3, 2014


We all seek beauty, breathe it into our souls with ecstasy and revel in its various manifestations. We idealise beauty though it takes for each of us a different, special meaning that more often than not we share little of with others. Yet we all tend to try to blend in when challenged on our thoughts about beauty, about what it is that we relate with as being beautiful, we try to join a common chase for all that is beautiful joined like in a hunt for the rare yet opulent beast.

In our incessant quest for beauty, we have come to ignore the essence of it, occupied as we are with categorising it, restraining it, constraining it to the canons that we know or that we have read of. Somehow, beauty, like all other matters that we dwell upon must, it would seem, fit into yet another box that we can then stow away, content with the notion of having identified and qualified yet another piece of this jigsaw world that bewilders us. Some of us, strong in our sense of what should be beautiful, find the walls of our certainties shaken when we chance upon something that utterly clashes with our notion of beauty but we are still drawn by it, transfixed, mesmerised at the mere viewing of it. It is then, when our hearts and souls are immersed by the sense of that incredibly beautiful “non-beauty”, that we truly come to realize that beauty cannot and may not be categorised, that it may not be forced within the bars of a narrow definition of it, however much the system may wish to influence our view of it.

Beauty for me, is every small thing that touches the heart and soul and that inspires positive emotions. A piece of music, an act, an object of art in whichever form it may be is beautiful when it touches one whether to make one cry, laugh, feel loved or want to bestow love, feel elated, full of hope or even devotion.

When you are open to beauty, you develop a tendency to want to gather around you all things that are beautiful because you want to revel in that beauty constantly, draw upon it as a permanent source of energy. This may clash, however, with the simplicity of life required to continue developing oneself without the external distractions, the most prominent of which are the clutter that can be caused by collecting items, even of great beauty. A good solution to this apparently intricate dilemma is simply having pictures of all that one finds beautiful and to keep these available to one. When one has a vivid imagination, calling upon the memory of viewing something beautiful equates to actually viewing that item again.

The problem with beauty when taken to the level of human beings is that it is often confused with the external appearance of a person and a quote to that effect is that “beauty is skin deep”. While it may remain true that we are often drawn to a person based on the external criteria of beauty we would have assimilated as our own, we seldom keep that initial frame of mind beyond a few months or even a few weeks. For most of us, beyond that external appearance that most of us have been taught to think as beautiful, we need a deeper sense of beauty, something that is beyond the mere skin.

Even when you take people whom one could consider as shallow because they do not go beyond the external appearance of a person, not willing to relate to that person or discover the actual human qualities that the person may or may not have, you realise that their infatuation with the external appearance fades with time. Such people get that epiphany when they realize that they actually know nothing about the person they have chosen based solely upon the external appearance as they have not taken the time to discover the human qualities of the person. More often than not such people realize as time passes that the person they chose for external beauty alone has dedicated more time to enhancing, preserving or restoring that beauty than to developing themselves from a human perspective. When one is really what is considered shallow, one would just carry on, encouraging the person to continue enhancing and preserving that beauty without caring about what goes on within the envelope presented as a delightful package. When one is actually not that shallow, the sense of novelty disappears and is replaced by a longing for something more meaningful.

I have often observed that people with an incredibly beautiful partner from an external beauty standpoint seem to all of a sudden get drawn to people who are referenced as quite plain as compared to their partner. Sometimes, they may even give up their relationship to then live with the other person, leaving their families and friends disconcerted on this sudden turn of events. I believe, this is simply the transformation of the notion of beauty – insofar as it relates to human beings – in the minds of such people. Their personal evolution then causes their view of human beauty to transform, thereby making it difficult to sustain the relationship they had before, especially if their partner did not evolve with them beyond the concept of a still-life beauty. They seem to then seek a person who has little to do with their previous partner at least from an external appearance perspective and also, quite often, from a human qualities standpoint.

Here again, one can say that beauty in a human being is therefore what touches one’s soul, what one relates to and that causes intense emotions. While we are mostly indoctrinated to react and feel positive vibes at the presence of external beauty mainly, when we are in touch with our inner feelings and true to our inner selves, we feel a sense of beauty in a human being when we feel what that person holds of internal beauty. Sometimes it may just be a form of kindness, a sense of humour that we relate to, a formidable capacity to love, empathy, wisdom, openness, simplicity and the list may go on forever as we each relate to different qualities that we find beautiful. We often discover, as we evolve, that the notion of beauty is not just different from one person to another but that it is also different from one age to another and one state of conscience to another within the same person.

Like in the case of objects, one does not need to possess beauty – unlike what some people do by insisting on having a relationship such as a domestic partnership or a marriage – by possessing or attempting to possess the person whose beauty strikes one as worthy of preserving around oneself. Friendship is another form of social interaction which allows one to enjoy the beauty of another human being without the need to “own” that beauty. Photographs too of time spent with that beautiful person can be a good alternative to having that person constantly in one’s life. Again, when one has a vivid imagination, one is able to draw from memories the sense of being in direct interaction with that person whose beauty touched one.

One last thought as I remember the saying « Beauty is in the eye of the beholder »: we need to preserve our individual sense of what is beautiful and avoid the generic input forced upon us by media and society as a whole. Let beauty truly be in our eye, according to what we perceive through our eyes, minds, hearts and souls for we don’t need to be identical to be One.

The Lady at the bar (4)

November 27 – December 1, 2014

(a shared writing effort with Lars Epperson)

372 le matin 3

Arms outstretched towards the sky, he had quickened his pace and was almost running now towards the house as if he meant to embrace it. Something seemed to have changed in his mood and she wondered how one could shift from such a sense of grief to such a sense of glee without a transition.

Suddenly he stopped in his tracks and turned towards her. He did not seem to see her but was not looking right through her either. It was more as if he was lost in his thoughts and she was a substitute to the person who seemed to occupy them. He smiled at her, a smile that was all at once innocent, roguish and so disarmingly charming before speaking.

“Do you remember the old house? It was Sunday dinners; a tradition he wanted to keep: fried chicken mashed potatoes and gravy too much cooked to eat, worried him still, never quite able to carry it on.

Kids always seemed to busy the house where you pulled open your blouse.

– Do you like these?

– Uh, yes, think so, but never seen them outside playboy magazine

– Kiss them

Swimming in the creek, headlights shining on your nakedness…”

She listened to him as he alternated mimicking his role and that of the woman he had loved apparently, completely lost in his memories.

“Damn! Hated you/loved you; give me one more chance to nibble on your neck, down lower to your full breasts… I really need to make love to you, one last time”

She listened, not sure he was referring to his past love or to her as he seemed to be describing the love-hate relationship he had with her. Did he nibble on all his girlfriends’ necks? she wondered. She thought quietly about her own love habits and how it seemed that all human beings seemed to have their favourite likes and dislikes that did not really depend upon their partner’s likes and dislikes although they often had to make an effort to blend their favourites with their partner’s favourites.

What an intricate thing, she thought, this lovemaking where everyone was so different yet so similar. How was it that people even related to each other and were able to carry on feeling the same passion year after year if the things they did were so similar from one year to another, from one partner to another?

She was stopped from her daydreaming as she felt his gaze intensify on her and she lifted her eyes which caught his that seemed dark, brooding.

He looked at her, watched the wind play upon the tall grass blowing it first this way then that and wanted to tell her something but instead thought to himself “so many things I forgot to tell you.  Did I forget to tell you I love you?”

He gazed at her, saw her eyes widening and felt her searching him as he was searching her.

Again he wanted to say all those words to her but they just ran around in his chest as he talked to the image of her in his mind “Looking into your eyes, see the reflection, another time maybe someone new… shadows passing. I feel it fade. Yesterday, you would have wanted me to make love to you”.

She could feel that he meant to say something and she desperately wanted him to say it aloud but he seemed to be all at once lost in his own world and trying so hard to reach out to her and share with her his feelings.

He watched her expressions as her face changed from troubled to hopeful to pained to bewildered and he wanted to kiss her, to reassure her that everything was alright, that it had been a fleeting moment and that he was there for her like he had been for so long, like he would always be but the words failed him again.

He knew somehow that it wasn’t true and that this relationship between them that wavered between love and hate was bound to tear them apart and he realised that all the words in the world would do nothing to change that.

He smiled again at her, sadly, with the knowledge that the sense of heartbreak he felt was probably the one her eyes were conveying too as deep pools stirred in them with the downpour approaching. He thought softly to himself as he opened his arms to her and she ran on the backdrop of grass blowing in the wind “I know you won’t be here long; goodbyes, gotten good at them but hate that wait. Is it you, or me that goes first?”.

He held her tightly and felt again that mixture of bliss and pain as her curves melted into his body and he was submerged by her warmth and softness while at the same time realising that not too long after that they would be separated again. For now though, he whispered to himself as they clung on to each other and her tears spilled all over his shoulders “it is not over yet, it is not goodbye”.

Reading of this episode of the story: 



Read the next part of the story “The Lady at the Bar (5)  here – https://geethaprodhom.wordpress.com/english-novels/the-lady-at-the-bar-5/

The Lady at the bar (3)

November 22, 2014

(a shared writing effort with Lars Epperson)


Pulling up into the old home place. Lightning, off in the distance, waiting for the rain to hit the tin roof. Simple sounds, back in a life that once used to mean so much.

He quit caring; pain never overcame, came no more, left it on the doorstep, last time he walked out.

Waking; coffee on the porch. A whistle….there used to be dogs. He whistled, once again…nothing!

He watched her pull her dress up to her knees; grass grown tall brown, sullen feet, wet with dew.

She followed him, lifting her dress so that it would not get torn by the grass that had grown almost into bushes, dry, crackling as she walked through its bristles.

He seemed hypnotised by the house in front of him towards which they were both walking silently. She could see from the stiffness at his neck and shoulders that he seemed to be in pain.

She wondered what that small run-down shack of a house with its small holes like a bean bag bursting at the edges could have held for him to be so much in pain at the sight of it.

All of a sudden he started whistling, as if to beckon a dog but nothing came. She watched silently as his shoulders hung in sadness and wondered if she should keep following him.

Yesterday, she would have gone up to him boldly and put her arms around him to make whatever pain he felt go away but today, after their fight and despite his seeming to forgive her, she felt that somehow she had no place in that pain he seemed to be feeling.

She slowed her pace and the leaves seemed to rustle even noisier as she toyed with the idea of running towards him and throwing her arms around his neck.

He had slowed down too, his back still tense, shoulders hung, head still facing the house and he raised his arms towards the sky