threadbare

Red Chair

far away trees sway on the mountain top 
scent of nature fill into him
held by that red chair, he escapes
falls in a heap outside that window
flecks of dust are a sight to behold
in the filtered sunlight
he leaves behind all that load
what you physically see here is just a manifestation
where skimmed shadows tempt fate

no end comes out of the flood of his thoughts

phantom walls

phantom birds-
not much to recommend
hollow walls never tell tales
although brook in the woods does
I never notice leaping birds in rocky path
dry land does not interest them
when we get to listen to phantom screams
the walls will fall apart
no marriage can survive closed walls

"new walls will be built out of silence
why do I wish for that, I wonder"

diffused

Verdun, 1917 by Felix Vallotton

lights jumped all around her

the pain was excruciating

narrow beams struggled to grow wider

she wished to taste the sky

but was nailed to the earth

she felt as if sleeping on mud

all squishy and mishy mashy

diffused into the lights
her mind was fused to her heart
body refused to follow either
blackest of black clouds blanket her

"she will escape before that arrow of light pierces into her"



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I have Central serous retinopathy in my left eye....which is fluid leakage under the retina....that means I have blurred vision for now....

It will clear up with time....I have been told to reduce my stress. I had taken leave from work and right now I just trying to relax doing nothing. Not much of reading, watching TV or even use my laptop.....It has been more than a month now....

crossbow

under the crust of the earth
something explodes
you smile with brittle charm
my fever for you is unbearable
rustle of the willows
scare away the scarecrows
strange it might be
but the piercing breeze does not lie
invisible wind blows you away
I know I should stop that but I do not

my fingers are covered with sheaths
while again something explodes
deep within me

"I know I am the target but don't quite know in what way"

healing power of the soul

Sick Woman, 1665, by Jan Steen

why is your pulse racing
why do you feel so lethargic
woman, what is wrong with you
you sweet face is so pale
you lie lifeless

I wish to heal you
a doctor in your time of need
yet I see fire in your eyes,
your vision darting everywhere
as if questing for something

that gives me hope
that death cannot take you away
you will fight all the way
this room is your shelter now
but you have a long way to go

I keep hearing you say
'how beautifully leaves grow old
yet I am so cold'
your words will give you warmth
I see it in your spirit

"nurturing the soul is everlasting,
you are doing just fine"

ambivalence

who scurries there, I ask
feeling of tenderness long dissipated
incense sticks help me in my prayers
with a dazed look
I sprinkle holy water every where
my ambivalence empties itself into fear
my breathing steadies itself
while I look under the flaps of envelops
to find a word or two from you

"in my blurred vision
I see only creative wasteland of my past
I will plant new saplings into future
while you see to the cobbled path of my new home"

lure of the impure

It Must Be Time For Lunch Now, 1979, by Francesca Woodman 

I long for you
in the fractured  links of my mind
thinking you would fill in the gaps
and mend the holes
wishful thinking on my part
you have been absent for so long

I blocked you out of my heart
fairly easy task
when one has a blockade
I don't believe in the adage
"sometimes you bend,
sometimes you break"

I hold the fork in my palm
clutch pain to myself
my soul burns infernally
with a mirrored effect on my body
I am not so sure of the lure of you
which is so impure

"I might rock, if my eyes stayed open
and I did not feel so drunk"

ash laden reality

Flying Down, 2006, by David Salle

spiral traps me
I am stuck to the wall
you will paint me with damp ash
I will hide in the corners before bolts lock me in
the bird climbed down to be with me
bundles of straw stuck to her wings
what remains of that storm
which you conjured in your imagination
evidence of it shook out that tiny plane

"do bring some husk to cover the smooth floor,
I am not going to last in the corner for long"

poeming with songs

why do you need sleep-
is it to dream?

waking eyes see the inner soul

only an open mind can fathom the depth.

sleep takes us to a bottomless pit of no escape

at least for me, at least for me.......

do you expect halcyon days of youth
to ease handling life,
the onus solely lies with you
the songs you sing will keep you awake

oh, you need sleep
to pursue dreams
closed eyes are the soul of conscious
a rested mind can plunge into deep emotions
sleep is that escape we need
now and then, now and then

"let me escape into poems while you dream your songs"

sepia tints

where I end she begins 

is it what you think?
not in motley mind of yours

you can fathom her depth-

a predator you say;

I ask, of what?

she escaped you,

enclosed in your arms-

her cascading locks merged with yours.

time does fade to sepia shade

"blah, blah, blah,
the end, the beginning

can anyone define?"

wrapped in solitude

where is your gaze, I ask?

I thought you had fenced it

wrapping it around moments,

each one an entity in itself

on these pages I see vacuum-

a solitude, no one else seeks.

in the newspapers, words unwrap

fall apart on my lap

I collect each one

and arrange in the busy alone-ness

"in my dangling shoes,

why do I have that fenced feeling?"

footprints of venus

Venus and The Sailor, 1925, by Salvador Dali

I came down from the sky
to serenade with you
our dark glasses hiding us
the water is still
but we are splashing the ship
where did you send your crewmen
are they on a tryst like you?
I understand solitude,
the need of it
and why not-
it is a constant for me

"come my sailor, let me go now
sky waits to take me to mars
where my podgy thighs might thin out"

saunter

silent lilting tresses call out to the artist
for peering into her silhouette
if he could only see the color 
of her sensuous eyes
her exterior is so pleasing
her wholeness is a rich lyric

wild beauty is no alliteration
yet it resounds within him
every pore of his on fire

the artist in him
calls out to lilting the tresses silently
her silhouette is pouring into darkness
eyes so sensuous, color still a puzzle
light reflects her exterior
into a lyric of richness

"mind saunters, heart shimmers, body smoulders
yet the artist in him can only falter for a little while"

swirl it round and round

I swirled around your words
sometimes wisdom
many a times trivia
neither a lethal moment

my tears turned to laughter
or vice versa
so much emotions hinged
in the in-between silences 

morning turned to nights
nights into dawn
exchange of mind did not end
as it could not identify time

I know, it is not true when they say,
it's only words.
and words are all I have,
as you see me beyond that

we might not exchange a single word 
for weeks to come, 
yet the silence will make us
gravitate towards each other

"friendship is too mild a word for what we share,
the day I lose you, I will need to call it that"

blacker than the white

Breakfast, 1921, Fernand Leger

I turned into stone over that breakfast table
with pebbles within my stomach;
echo of those rubbing stone could be heard by all

you were shaken, no doubt, to silence
but it is a blessing for me
end of my suffering in which I had to listen to your ramblings

now I am a sculpture
a splendor in your drawing room
fiercely protected by scattered warriors of unknown origin

I can not be pushed into a remote corner
or thrown into a pasture where cows will stand near me
with grace, and look at me with reverence

"in a rugged marble, preserve me forever
and remember your follies"

tipsy fingers play footsie

hand on my hand
evidence of strength.
smooth sensuality changes gear
subtle shift of bare sensations
rest in the small of my back
light touches of the fingers
ignite the skin,
refresh volatile thoughts.
will it last
that bare white emotion
nine is only a number
gassed into bits
five is my destiny
when I enter your mind again
after eight hours
my hand, your fingers
banter with each other,
then coming into their element,
play the erotic dance
rawness of which amazes me still

"taming the toes was never a duty,
why then I curl my feet?"

mystic voyeur

Summer Night, 1913, by Albert Bloch

once upon a time
on a hot summer night
they were shivering
melting iced statues
cooled the air. 
their ardour did not cool
purple night enhanced it
staring at the tableau
I violated their space
a voyeur in that whorled ground
sky spangled with weird lights
no stars soothing the vastness
tree were akin to the limbs of an octopus, 
tentacles touching everywhere
aura of desire has a strong pull
I hug myself thinking of you

"heat is never far away, 
close your eyes, feel the fire, arctic fire"

confessing ochre is never far away

that slow descent was my undoing
I held your hand
my fingers embracing yours
in the orange haze of my mind
nothing was more beautiful

my spectacles slipped to the ground
crushed under our combined emotions
life's journey lost its meaning
in the ochre sidelines

I despaired to get closer
and closer and closer
that smile was my nemesis
I got lost in the golden light

sold to you, I hoped
to be etched into you
to be crushed in that mind
disintegration of self was so welcome

sounds of hues of orange
still speak to me
even when I am searching for you
essentially to find you by my side

"you never ever disappear
yet I fear, yet I fear
I might clear out
as my mind rests on the fence"

shades of roses on my walls

Big Room, 1948, by Andrew Wyeth

is that my bust I see on your window sill;
forlorn, neglected?
an empty room
yet I see an invisible fence
no trace of my scent.
why then you have my bust,
is it a link to our past?
essentials of an unfulfilled relationship
permeate the atmosphere
nothing is forgiven.
in that grate
you threw the recipe of our love.
what a smooth operator you have been
you etched my profile with a pencil
so as to remember to forget me

"in that rose tinted dusk
I explore the possibility of your imbalance"

Meditating for being one with you

Meditation on the Harp by Salvador Dali

you give me all of yourself,
trusting me enough to bare it all.
your vulnerability was always
known to me somehow,
even without your saying so.

you open yourself to me,
a very big responsibility for me
to care, to nurture, to keep you safe
within me. the same way
you keep me safe within you.

you complete me;
fulfilling that part, the vacuum.
I was in a slumber,
you woke me up
with you I am sincere to myself.

the great master
painted us the way we are
in the recesses of our minds;
the harp playing for us
for eternity….

"yellowed clouds are amused
while you excite me, I excite you back"

dregs

Under Windsor Bridge, 1912, by Adolphe Valette

he hid his lopsided smile
in that misty evening
orange light cast a paleness
standing at the edge
he looked at the dredge

what dregs were left behind
in the remnants of his mind
moist air flowed around him
yet in his heart
there was a drought

the water below was as still
as his turmoil 
ghostly shadows cast a spell
yet he chose the difficult path
walked away from the edge

"that gap in the bridge is never an option"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 My muse seems to be in a vacation. I had to prod it today to do some work!!

diffused

A Dinner Table at Night, 1884, John Singer Sargent

what is behind the bellowing curtains
she asks herself..
her mind has zoomed out her companion's voice
waiting for dessert,
is that a wise move?
she wishes for solitude

there can never be a shortcut
maybe the morning will show her a path
but for now, the bellowing curtains hold her interest
not the raging fire
nor the winds or rains
nothing can shatter her calm

"not for her, the softened lights"

inevitability

image by Zelko Nedic

come, my friend
let us explore the world. 
we can't stay forever
in this dingy place.
can't you see the writing on the wall?

your hood hides your face
I see you swallow a lump
a loved one is no more
gone too soon
we cannot cover that distance

let go of your sorrow
let it be passed on to me
don't stand at that crossroad of living dead

"close your eyes and feel the particles of her presence
they will ensconce you. always"

twisted into shape

Figure Eight, 1952, by Franz Kline

a sorry sketch of figure eight
a caricatured horse
twisted into oblivion
who cut into sharp edges
would it not endanger?

"meaningless madness is a hazard
not some misshapen metal
-a treasure for an artist"

planted ruminations

with all humility
the plant defied gravity
sprouting upside down
from a crack in the roof
when a plant relishes a spray of water
on its leaves
it sheds the dry feeling
it does claim a calmness
a plant can feel chained to ground
standing at one place
for a long long time
death being a trigger for another place
from that upside down position
it swells with pride
no one will grittle it
a fate deserved only for grounded plants

maybe someday,
it might be sooner than later
it will watch action-laden plant flicks
when it might say rain rain go away

between the parallel lines

artwork by Jack Vettriano

the netted curtain veils her
the way she looks at that far away window
nothing is visible
yet she can see in her mind's eye
a room filled with all her longings
a limitless imagination holds her in her time of need
a loyal friend who never lets her down

in the other corner of that room
he sits watching her stillness
his impatience is deeply hidden.
in her silhouette
he finds his solace
a feat almost impossible to achieve

that falling lock of hair
snakes into both.
hits at one-
while the other seems complacent 

clouded into obscurity

Chilmark Hay, 1951 by Thomas Hart Benton

that horse wants hay
and that clown pushes him away
in those coloured clouds
raindrops sway
when trees turn to be dragons
can the horse be far behind?
elongating his neck
he refuses to move
the mounds interest him
yet the horse talks to the ground
everybody hurts sometimes
be it man or horse

"you take the circular path
I will trudge the river in a straight line"

yellowed with age

Ophelia by Odilion Redon 

here I listen to the silence
lying on that floor
my eyes are closed
my mind open to your every nuance
you bring me flowers
I hold those to me
I am in no mood to inhale the scent
as I am saturated with you
my soul flew to you
as an un-moored kite
you pushed me hard
I fell in a thud on that stretch of ground
where someone had painted the manhole cover, blue

"I will slip into the underground
deep into soulful sleep
you climb every mountain
as high as my sigh"

sharp edges

Puddle, 1952, M. C. Escher

in that tapestry
I see a pattern
asymmetry of nature
unadorned in a drab canvass
footprints leads one to parents
the universal one, mother earth
she cushions the sharp edges
zigzag branches imprison the light on the ground
track marks are inevitable
to roll into invisible something

"pour water over me
let the fine details embed into me
I will draw circles
do thumb painting"

under the surface

Changla: Photo stolen from Suchismita's FB page!!

is there anybody there

not a trace I see

in the cracks of subliminal temper

such a racket

who hid the strings

where is the spare

buried in the snow

my chest saves the draft

such a temper

what did it latch to?

I stop myself from a refrain

can't anyone see me me blend in

does it not strike to someone

all that waiting might have killed me?

has it really been a decade

in my current state?

"I will come out anytime

hit back hard upside down-

those big stones helping me"

deep waters

Copy Right © 2012 Hannah Gosselin ~ Pier Post Persisting

I crawl under the logs
trembled stones brush the earth
willow trees sway in the wind
casting shadows on me
slush and mud rub into me
the stain on my clothes I can bear
the image imprinted in my corona
I cannot see
who called the bluffs
my mind asks
when I hold a log
my nail snags
you could have it all
all of me,
all of my possessions
but you escaped in that vessel
into deep waters
which will take you far away

"from my strategic point 
I watch the vessel sink into deep waters,
loving the smell of mud on my skin"

hang me on your door knob

Still Life, 1670, detail by Jean François de Le Motte

that stub
assorted letters
a notebook
pages from a book
a sealed envelope
newspaper cuttings
I see all those
that expression of yours
when writing
or that intense look when reading
strings of the past lay askew
tied neatly in a disreputable thread
photo frame riveted to the wooden wall
why does it stab at my heart
you hung her head
where did you throw her costume
eyeless she doesn't appear wanting
I can see clearly now
the wicked intricacies of your mind

"I do not wish to be a newspaper cut out,
ribboned to your collection"

conflict

crouching closely to the ground
what do you chisel away?
my nerves are on edge
my heartbeat so fast

the ground splits 
you crumple that paper in your palm
drop it into that slit
why did you bruise the earth?

you could have burnt it.
in the glow of the fire
I would have watched your face
that piercing look in your eyes

when your mind crashes to ground
we both burst into the sky
no one wins nor is it a draw
seems like it is what you are good at

it is your life's mission
to demolish everything
be it for a living
or to wreck my working week

"a buried paper can be taken out
I know you will read my love letter again"

borrow my eyes, borrow my ears

this face and figure
that you bestowed upon us
we like our stature
fruits, berries, leaves
enhance it
we stand proud in our fruit fortress
fragrances reach out to that child
our berry eyes beckon her
tentatively she touches our moustache
tickling the "royal we"
a little push here
a little shove there
we fall apart in front of her

when little children touch with their grubby hands
(it happened not only in our dreams)
picking fruits, berries, leaves, 
we give up our fickle thoughts
loving the feel of their love in their mouths

"eat as much as you can children,
we are not worried about our disappearance"

spiral

 Expressionism: View of Toledo by El Greco (1541-1614)

candles flicker
I hear a jingling sound,
and cower under the shadows of that tower
why, you ask?
I shake my head at the clouds
dark, ominous, intimidating
the tower seems harmless
I slowly climb to top
the city unfolds
(error in my judgement about the tower)
I now know my mistake.
with half a smile
I watch two bears fighting in the clouds
the trees sway in the drama
their laughter reaching the sky
tower stands tall vindicated,
and enfolds me in its embracing warmth

"when do I realize that
I have been totally fenced?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 This painting is from 1596-1600. Yet seems very modern, as if from the present period. El Greco must have been a visionary.....


Thanks Poetry Jam, for making me explore various forms pf arts...