A fake death.

Out of Breath

Living, living, living
It wears me out
This present continuous state
Of the act of staying alive.

Coz I get tired sometimes,
Breathless often
And I lose my appetite for life
Quite easily.

I have a tiny stomach
For which to be full
A spoonful of life
Is more than enough.

I would like to live in portions
With time to rest in between
Where there is no living.

And I thank God for sleep:
The closest thing to not-living.

     I would like to dedicate this entry to the appreciation of an artistically articulated photo I found on a website today. I found it while I was looking for a model to replicate by drawing. The photo, as you can see below, contains a marvelously delicious scene of a cup of coffee presented along with a chocolate-chip cupcake in a plate. Something huge for the size of the cup has apparently been heavily thrown into it, causing a dramatic splash.

Apart from being obviously marvelous, this photo mesmerized me when I rolled up my sleeves and started dividing the space and measure the distances between the objects. The rectangle containing the photo was divided so perfectly that I was left with my mouth open. The imaginary line dividing the two halves of the rectangular from both sides (up-down & right-left) was formed by the actual edges of the objects in the photo. The edge of the plate was complimented with the edge of the paper cup containing the cupcake, forming the horizontal middle line; and the vertical line was formed by the narrow space between the cup and the cupcake. Both objects had their top surfaces forming a line, and left balanced amounts of space at each side of the plate.

In addition to this fabulous symmetrical synchronization, the photo demonstrated a festive harmony of colors. The juxtaposition of rich brown and crisp white in the coffee cup tuned pleasantly with the touches of brown in the prevalent ochre tone of the cupcake; and the two complemented the color of the plate and the plain golden yellow background, forming a picture of musical hues of warm colors.

My appreciation for professional photography has increased deeply after seeing the amount of effort it must have taken to set and take a photo of such detailed scene.

My Drawing? Here it is

When you are Ready

From the cup of the wise
you will sip wisdom
and with power you will fill your tank
thus along the way
it will aid you
and when you are astray
it will guide you.

On the pillow of knowing
you will rest your head.
On the bed of your being
You will stretch out;
no cluster of doubts
will be stocked underneath.

…

QWERTY Keyboard

QWERTY keyboard
in my hand’s memory

The tips of my fingers
 tap the keys
one after another

Emancipated letters
come together
one by one
and merrily play

Chapter I

He stood there, among the pile of feminine power—a power so elegant you would not notice how strongly it could affect you even if its unmistakable sharpness had been standing right in front of your nose all the time. Feminine power crawled under his feet in various colors: sunset orange, rusty metal, bruise-blue, and even London beige. He looked up and saw Jabir pushing his way through the mass of alluring arms, trying hard to reach his friend and offer him a rescuing hand, or at least help him not be defeated alone.

“Husain, are you insane? Why did you open all the boxes at once? Don’t you have the tiniest sense of organization? Look at this pile of shoes around you. I can barely see you!”

Husain waved at his friend while a clumsy smile inscribed a sweet charm on his face.  “Don’t worry about that,” he said, “I will get them in order in no time.”

Jabir did not seem to be convinced, but he did not want to be too harsh on his friend. He held a red shoe with an extremely high heel and wondered how women could trust those beautifully designed little torture-rooms with their feet, and was amazed at the amount of pain and determination it took to be glamorously miserable.

A tippity-tip of rhymed footsteps distracted him from his meditation. He looked up and saw her highness standing tall in high-heels.

“Oh, should I come later, when, uhm, there is reasonable space for standing (and I am not even mentioning walking) in the store?”

Husain gave out an open, welcoming laughter and said, “I am sorry for the mess, Clara. I think you won’t be able to concentrate on your work under such conditions. I will call you when I am done pairing and categorizing the shoes.”

Clara paid for his excuse with a sympathizing nod and a smile she seemed to have picked from some angel’s pocket. “All right, see you later then!” she said, and tippity-tipped away.

“She’ll help me decorate the store,” Husain explained to Jabir, who would have heard him had he been there.

Noticing his friend’s absence, Husain wondered where and when he had left, but such thoughts were quickly pushed aside by a tidal wave from the sea of shoes he was trying to swim in.  

To be continued…

…

The Sound of Forests

Poetry jungles—
rarely trodden.
Lulled rhymes—
never awakened.

Irrelevant, irreparable
poems of passion; lost
in lands of crooked truth,
forests of exuberant lies
and fortresses of yanked melodies.

Quilted waves of passion
on human faces
first hunch within
human skin

and forests only speak
of the true situation
after it’s blown from under
the ground of crime
or the land of passion.

…
Once upon a Time

Once upon a time
a rabbit prince left his castle of a hole,
I mean,
hole of a castle
to stumble upon
a beautiful figurine
of a pitiful ballerina
with a broken leg
and the traces of a missing bun
at the crown of her head.

This rabbit prince
took the ballerina by the hand,
twirled her in the air
once or twice—
or may be thrice.

He squinted
then poke her porcelain skirt
he shook her
then took her
and hurled her into the river
by his side.

Pockets in his chubby hands,
I mean,
hands in his chubby pockets,
no, chubby hands in his pockets,
he turned his back to her
and walked away.

He was wearing a blue velvet jacket that day
an image the ballerina never forgot.

She was wearing her blues that day;
and her blues
did not have pockets.

Sare

…

Pitiful Petit Beurre

Pitiful petit beurre,
you stand there
entangled in your sweet despair,
with your hair
like reams of dreams.

Oh my pitiful petit beurre
I see you struggle
I feel your flutter.

Then when you tilt your head
and look down
in quiet surrender,
and I see serenity in your eyes
swimming like nanodolphins,
I tingle inside.

This sweet submission,
this brave naïveté,
the unboxed fragility
of yours
frightens me.

You leave yourself ajar
and my heart pops open
every time, my pitiful petit beurre,
I see you stand there
uncovered,
disclosed.

And I want to put you away
from the reach of careless hands
but I know you are
one tough cookie,
even though you are
a pitiful petit beurre

Sare