Retreat

The Brackish Rose Brackish, dark, the lips that refuse to break into a smile, the roses in your yard are tinted blackish red. And yet the perfume, aggressively starts to move across the borders between the walls. I respect your silence, your silent watch melting and letting an estuary form to let the fresh-water flow. The brine will never turn sweet, yet with a tinge of the bland the balance may tilt towards a thaw . The manuals and the codes that the sea and the sand, the rivers and the ponds, they derive their sense from the geographies,  the times and the climates of ancient lands. Shakespeare will not shake hands with the Jew of Malta in a foreign land. Moreover, the prehistoric, regressive beings will retreat behind walls on the scent of civilized aeroplanes high over their heads in the sky. The brackish rose will smell as sweet, though, it's hard to lose the dark glow. 20 Sept. 2015.

Frumusețea lunii revărsată aici de penelul tău într-un poem... Călimara dansează liniștită pe hârtie Ca o muză fermecată... Ah, această lună plină spre care călătoresc mereu Cu aceeași dragoste între cele două linii paralele ale universului. Atras de cercul fermecat al lunii din poemul tău... Sem Mulțumesc pentru imagine, Brigitte  ❤ 🌹 Mulțumesc pentru inspirație, Sushama Karnik  ❤ 🌹 No translation available

An empty frame was the thing I drew on an empty canvas first. Oh what do we do, what do we do when the fantasy turns on the canvas in bright and unambiguous terms? All colours  banned,  the drama, the riot of colours, all restrained, only the white and the black reigned. A sheer definition of emptiness grading its essence up to the rim! Then I stopped in exhaustion in the foreground which was my vantage-point, thinking that was the end. Softly as I stared, the canvas stirred; something emerged and changed the space, as if change was what the emptiness waited for. A dome emerged and painted itself. Now it's indelible. Complete! An ephemeral vision of the absolute 1 June, 2015. Sushama Karnik (c) The image was  shared by Ulysses Without Ith j

Originally shared by Fabien Todescato Mumbai In that faraway land of a thousand gods, Among the towers of glass and concrete, Of its vast cities and bustling towns, My heart yesterday found its last abode, The secret place of a silent retreat, A quiet harbour of love unknown. By Fabien Todescato In the bustling, and a truly selfless soul of Mumbai there is a seashore called Bandstand, located in a western suburb called Bandra. The sea is rolling at the foot of the hill, and on the hill is a church of Mount Mary. and on the way uphill towards the church, is a place where the nuns live. It is called Retreat. Half-way up , you can take a pause and watch the quiet, solitary backyard of The Retreat and feel the fragrance of so many frangipani flowers all in bloom. It was a favorite with me and I used to take all my friends at least once to visit that place. Sushama Karnik Sep 11, 2015 

Coming and going from room to room I rummaged through drawers for story-books and found nothing but pairs of worn-out socks, broken chessmen and elephant castles, wooden dreams while the nine-year-o[d sat patiently, sullenly tapping his fingers on the board, waiting for me to flip out a tale, while I was lost in his childhood tales. I kept getting out of the heaps of toys he discarded the little bits of lessons learnt... And the longer I took to come out of his past the faster he grew in understanding me. I regressed as he grew in years as he watched me take my time coming out of his room; his anger giving way to compassion, sullenness giving way to a mellow forbearance. That half-hour's time was an age for both. 17 Sept. 2015.   Shared privately • View activity Karina Hidalgo +1 "That half-hour's time was an age for both" ❤ur writing. Thanks for sharing your gift. REPLY  Sep 17, 2015  Sushama Karnik +1 Thank you...

And I wish this was a dream a cherished dream come true. And as I think this thought I also knew the real is never the conceptual. The dream , a world without a practical consequence, a word, a thought under erasure. Does it hurt to think and dream, a world where nothing is a sin, where nothing begs for forgiveness, where I create myself and immediately dissolve before time, the hunter tracks me down and nails me, puts me down under a selective square of a parody of what I made of me. an abstruse symbol, a watery grave where everything flows , nothing is held. And in the very moment of saying this I know, how I yearn to create a body, a body that I could call You, a body, a You that will give me a name, a name that will never be erased Shared privately • View activity The Cloberth +1 Food for thought. Thank you + Sushama Karnik   REPLY  Nov 13, 2015  Sushama Karnik + The Cloberth Thank you very much that it...