Ramyani Sen
I paint an image of us.
While my mind walks a mirage,
While my mind walks a mirage,
A gossamer mist emanating a fine sheen of golden.
I paint with slow contemplative brushstrokes.
Unsure of how my deeprooted thoughts
And very particular emotions would find itself on canvas.
I rush a little,
Always fearing that my unfathomable delay
Will negate my art and consequently cripple my creation.
It is never easy to emote something so dear.
The feverish blending of colours,
Like a sunset dripping and ripping apart at the seams, molten gold and
Is that a hint of purple I see?
Like that one time we shared sitting on the edge of the forgotten lane
Feet dangling and heart expelled of worries
You had wanted to confess your hidden desires to me
Hushed promises.
The sun was kissing the horizon
Golden.
But it is never easy to emote something so dear.
Is it ever? What are we all trying to say?
And why are we even trying?
What is it that get stuck in our throats?
Onto our tongues like burs sticking to our feet on a wild grassy field.
We are all lost in translation.
My favourite golden shade,
Tumbling down and falling like a magnificent water fall
As I am.
My incoherent thoughts about you are but streams.
Of wild waters. Untamed. Egotistic. Proud.
It is perhaps not available for archive.
Yet I try. Eager to create distinction.
A signature narrating our story.
In vivid, but when looked closely,
Slightly sad colours.
In loud but subtly quiet strokes. As I am.
As we all are.
A cacophony of haphazard oxymorons.
Memories rushing in eager waves of you and I
Simpler times building castles on the shore
Unmoving despite the ravages of time.
Your laughter like church bells
Richocheting through my heart.
Your hair used to be golden.
A faux fashion, but brimming with beauty.
My favourite shade, my dearest colour.
My personal brand of a happy sunset.
The paint brush hang limply from my nimble fingers,
Unsure. Halting.
The glittering gold that my heart had associated with us.
A fragile tether to our quiet conversations.
Now lost somewhere in the process of artistry.
The sunset outside my window is as impeccable as ever.
Inciting inspiration but also unadulterated jealousy.
The fine bold strokes of nature are Hypnotic but also a glaring kaleidoscope of All the things that I can never be.
I leave my canvas a work in very slow progress.
Probably like the world is.
Probably as we all are.
Incomplete.
Probably as we all are.
Incomplete.
Striving to reach saturation.
Beautiful
Beautiful
It seems to me that you have poured your emotions in this beautifully expressed poem.
Don’t know if quoting will be appropriate but because that immediately comes to mind. So here it is by Zadie Smith.
“ Love is not something to do, but something to be experienced, and something to go through- that must be why it frightens so many of us and why we so often approach it indirectly. Here is this novel, made with love, here is the banana bread made with love. If it weren’t for this habit of indirection, of course, there would be no culture in this world, and very little meaningful pleasure for any of us.”
Slowly but steadily finish whatever you were planning to do but with love.
Feels good to go through each word as you tell and yes i can understand.
Some things and some feelings are really very difficult to express. Be it words or even through art in any form. But we often come close to it. Or else we wouldn’t have masterpieces to feel amazed about.
Well done dear. Couldn’t help but say…
No words. Unbelievably beautiful…💜💜