Category Archives: Poetry


tyModelInTheArtistsStudio 001

“The Artist’s Studio” by Tatjana Jablonskaja


Pauses in the studio, are

different to other kind of pauses

contemplative, thoughtful , long or

short bouts of reflection.


stretch those limbs for renewed energy

grace the mind to dream a life

heart fluffed with new passion

a chosen separation to refine the soul.



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I used to be nice

now I don’t see a reason

to scrape and bruise myself.

                                                             Haiku by Shal

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Brew up a kiss


I’ve given you enough warning

I’m not a great person to love, with

My shall-we-have-tea-first temper

It’s a destroyer? Me –thinks not.


I’m not just lips, and skin and poems

I’m a mansion, almost an abode

I’ll take you to galleries and sad movies

Kiss you in front of Gustav’s spot.


At times fresh pecks in bird-chirpy gardens

 caresses oft’ musty libraries & monuments

The smells you will gather in the recesses

Of your cortex, will keep you hot.


Pillager yes. Like a storm, inflamed

plunging berries soaked in soil inseparable

Exhilarating though, Leave you an earthy &  emotional

Toil, stains that do not blot.


Gustav Klimt, The Kiss , 1908–1909

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In search of stones

Explains Joseph Campbell

‘If the path before you is clear,

You’re probably on someone else’s.’

The dignified , and rich with experience

world, offers you a compatible life;

you subdue a gnawing

hunger for chaos, for non

conformity, you feel

suffering in just being.


You will flip, he says

You will feel incongruity.

You will venture into a realm

Of danger, creativity, in a quest for

Bliss, which is yours, there Is no strife.

The search for life you start, in the

 darkness of creative pleasure,

endure its pain and torture; love

and hate through your art.


you have intensity, you embrace

discomfort, marvel at your adventures.

You will experience the trials, and loss

Gain inspiration, and traverse that path

That’s yours, dignified, and rich from learning

Towards a compatible life.


Watercolour : Stanislav Holota


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Original watercolour : Stanislav Holota

Lack of order they say

Gradual decline,

It is the opposite of creative endeavor;

 I see it as a sign.


Seeds degenerating and sprouting

Into little radicle seedling,

The random little stem finding its way

towards the sun and smiling.


Or animal matter decaying

And providing healthy dung,

Stinking organic life, paving

For new life to be sprung.


The smaller minds and their karmas

The larger with attached chaos,

Sincere thoughts amidst

Incessant fake pathos.

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Hang out

Derick and I

we hang out, like

a lot.

we are a little alike

as friend are,

we enjoy people watching

at the café, sit catlike

we love our cosy creamy skin

narcissts by faar,

most of all, we love being alone

together, like

a lot.




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Wild flower


Grow like a wild flower

In all the places where

You wouldn’t think

Anything grows;


Climb  unknown buildings,

Little paths , In abandon

Through cracks

Untamed, yet

Easily broken


Blooming, shying

Just sprouting impulsive

No petals or thorns

Only pure



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A new leaf

There are poems inside of me

That paper cant handle

Turn a new leaf, they say

New year, new beginnings,

cast far off from the painful yesterday;



Another pile of  resolutions,


Its not a magic wand

Old doings will haunt

Old frames pertinently stay

I cannot be unaware of the

real day;


Drawing : Pooja Verma


It hurts my creativity

O Angels, my eyes go misty

give me some naivete!

There is no rest, no repose

I don’t want to understand anymore;

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As I travel through time;

Or it travels through me, sublime;

For each is its own paradigm;

I think of that place;

If it can be called a place;

Beyond time and space;

Where, as souls, we gather;

In our stations, you and I together.


Sharing our aspirations;

Not by words or actions;

Those are for mortal men and maidens;

But by the presence of the other;

For soul mates, we were;

Savouring in the company of one another.


Looking down into the dark abyss;

We see those who have a long way to go;

And above us are those who glow;

Each in their own rank and row;


We know that to rise into that glow;

We must create time and space;

Into which we must take human form to grace;

Forgetting each other;

And all we shared together;

Into the hands of the Blacksmith;

To be burnt and forged therewith.


And when the pain is not bearable;

And the purpose becomes a baffle;

And there is no way to pass;

And life seems a morass;

The kindly Blacksmith, awesome;

Throws us into our soul mates bosom.


Who for now is a stranger;

Whom we seem to have known forever;

To whom we want to open our hearts bare;

As we did before with little care;

But clouded by our acquired ego;

We loosen the reins slowly to show;

Our joy with this soul from long ago.


Alas, it has been the Blacksmith’s play;

To bring together soul mates gone astray;

At the direst moments of their way;

For relief, but only for a short stay.


Be warned O Blacksmith;

Lest the heavens be torn apart;

That this time around;

Your mallet shall take respite;

Contributing poet, and friend Vilochan

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Drawing : Courtesy Pooja

Write , erase, shadows, bits of light

I can never feel satis-fied

It’s the same, history

There is no mystery.

Rarely I feel this bright,

Like that precious light

Of the eclipse!


Traversing along, in our

Own orbits, closing in maybe

Till we crossed paths

And I , like the moon

Blocked your world

You are so much brighter than me

Glowing in your endless fire

Engulfing me, embracing

My entire

I felt so bright,

Like that precious light

Of the eclipse!


They say its unlucky

Someone stole the moon

Dusk n dawn of colours canary

 But I was lost in awe, you

aligning  into my orbit,

Warming me, embracing

My entire

I felt so right,

With your precious light

Of the eclipse!








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