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Showing posts from 2011

Summer

My apologies for not being consistent about my posts! Truth be told, I haven't written or created any art in some time; so, instead, I will share a poem I wrote when I first moved to Chicago last August. I was walking through Lincoln Park in the afternoon, feeling homesick and keeping to the shade, when I, just for a few moments, felt like my senses were on fire. All the sounds in the park were magnified, the path on which I was walking got brighter, and I got such a strange heady feeling that I sat down on the nearest bench. Here's what came of it: ~Home~ In a new place, I find remnants of my home. Humid, warm air soaks my armpits and my brow as I walk in a shady park. The crickets and cicadas cry out tirelessly, "We are! We are!" We are life. We are beauty. We are one. Miraculous trees in Urban outer space ground me To the earth, root me In place I am home wherever I find my memories. I am home. ~Poonam Desai (8/16/2010) Lincoln Park/ Urban Oa

War

While I am glad justice has been served for so many, I hesitate to celebrate. Osama bin Laden is one man among many who shared his sentiment. This is not about the defeat of one man, and that's why this is not over. We, as a human race, are only as good as our weakest individual; so, we have a long way to go before peace is the reigning force among us. E ach of us must constantly ask ourselves what image of America are we portraying? What image of humanity are we extending to others? If this is to be such a historic moment, let us not simply celebrate death, but contemplate the suffering of others and better ourselves so that history need not repeat itself. As we think on these things and evaluate our role in peace/war, I offer a poem I wrote years ago that still aptly summarizes my feelings toward all of these things. I'd love to hear your thoughts. Cheers, PD ~War~ Static whispers on the radio Something is wrong in Sarajevo They crash! Kamikaze are idols But

The Dogs Days are Over

It's finally spring! As cold and desolate as winter was in Chicago, spring (though it came in May) is just as refreshing and beautiful. I think, perhaps, winter is the sleep of time, or of nature. The buds must close and the grass must fade so they can rest and be fully renewed when the sun returns. There is nothing that inspires as much hope and peace as a lovely spring morning. So, I bid adieu to the winter and the cold (both external and internal) with a little ode to black.  ~Black~ swish whoosh gone Quiet is the sound of the dark Raven black.  easy are the steps of those who walk above who do not know whither their steps may go.  gray film blurs everything in kind when  a light goes out and leaves darkness behind. dreary skies overhead  and heaviness within, I cry a salty tear, a coal snake slithers down my cheek. black is numb and cold yet it pierces and aches  it hurts, it is hurt it is nature's sad day slither and swoosh  extinguish and weep  this horrible maca

Dreaming in Violet

I find purple to be one of the most beautiful colors in nature. It is coveted by royalty, and brightens any field of wildflowers. It is rich, it is delicate, it is sweet, and wildly dark. The twilight sky is nightly stained with violet memories, and lavender fields are divine in their gorgeous simplicity. I share with you my thoughts on this majestic color.  Purple In the shade of the orchards we sit, you and I. Whispering our silky words into the crisp air. I dreamt of amethyst suns glazing the world with a plum frost and holding your hand for the first time. I always see best when there are lavender flowers woven into my hair and the juicy flesh of a royal pomegranate drips down my chin, leaving a strange violet vine. That is when I am without name or fame, desire or shame. It is this night that the gems of the earth matter not, that even the orchids bow their regal heads.  We are outside the universe and outside care.  I would not dare to end this pensive hour,  yet our pitcher of

How Now Brown Cow?

No one ever says brown is their favorite color- it's not bright, it's not vibrant, and it's not very beautiful. It is earthy. It is natural. It is skin, soil, butterfly wing, and death. It is, perhaps the deepest color of the earth, as well as the most elevated. How 'bout them brown apples? ~Brown~   What are you that brings sweat to men's brows as they tear you apart, reaping and forcing you to give for centuries? You thirst for the rain, sweet martyr,  while they thirst for your very last fruit. What are you that men will kill thousands of their brethren, holding you hostage along with their own brothers? You must quietly drink the blood they have spilled, weeping silently as they mar your skin with shallow mines. What are you that an exile longs to crawl back to your warm womb rather than seek riches elsewhere?  He will lower his lips in a fervor of final peace as he kisses that which can be his only home. What are you that men shamelessly use you for thei

And it was all yellow...

Next up in the series is... you guessed it! Yellow (gold, ochre, amber, sepia, daffodil...whatever you want to call it). Yellow has always been the color of optimism for me- never overbearing, just bright enough to make me smile. This poem pays tribute to that particular quality of yellow that means light, joy, and hope. ~Yellow~ When the sun shines, you’ve got to catch it Save it for those amber-colored days When the lemons won’t turn to lemonade Because you ran out of sugar last week Save it for that faded moment Of sepia-toned memories Playing like a reel behind your eyes Maybe a remnant of a sunny state fair day Or a flash of ribbon resting in her dark hair Mmm- if I could, I’d fry your smile In golden butter And dip it in mustard Before gobbling it up, Licking the crumbs off My fingers And slurping the juice off My plate When the sun shines, you’ve got to catch it Soak it in. Grow your seed into a Sunflower The daffodils will never Lie down of their own Accord Sand is not just

Red

I continue with my color series today with red: the color of aggression, the color of romance, the color of pure passion. I read a wonderful book on the background and histories of different colors not too long ago (it's actually called Color ).In it, I learned that some of the original red pigments used, and used even now, is cochineal blood. Red is rich; it is energetic; it's extravagant and beautiful all the same. ~Red~ I wish I wish I wish for red for a throbbing, heart- stopping, firecracker popping kind of red blood, rose, flame stop for me stop for me stop for me sometime blush, lips, kiss well, I can’t remember the last thing you said but I can recall the rush of blood I can remember the feeling silk, crimson, lush what does that glance mean as I walk by you in the morning? brick, stoplight, falling leaf you have been struck, I see made to halt and look at me oh the rush, the rush is back I wish I could know… what does love smell like? cherry? strawberry? raspberry?

The Color Wheel

Of all God's gifts to the sighted man, color is the holiest, the most divine, the most solemn (John Ruskin) I know I can never own a color, but I am greedy for them. I love surrounding myself with vibrant hues, or else seeking them in nature. There is nothing like the deep, iridescent, midnight blue on a peacock's feather. There is nothing so lovely as fall leaves turning into burning shades of fire. There's no happier place than sitting among a riot of wildflowers, equal parts peaceful and inspiring. I have also tried to capture color another way: through words. What is the essence of being blue? What does brown sound like? In these next few posts, I will be sharing my collection of poetry inspired by color. Mediterranean Reflections: A Color Series ~ Blue~ With the verve of Shakespeare the morose Prussian blue seduces those Russian UFOs into shimmering and flashing A liquid slab of mellow, full-bodied blueberries -elixir thick- poured into outerspace for

Green Like Me

No, sorry. This is not a tribute to Kermit the Frog, though he certainly deserves it. This is about me and good ol' chlorophyll. I have found that some of the best metaphors for what I am going through in life can be found in plants. Everything is cyclical in nature, but random, too. Maybe you'll get stepped on by a toddler's unsteady foot; maybe that cute bumblebee will come over to you and choose to spread your pollen; or maybe you'll get picked by a girl who wants to put you in a vase on her shelf. Whatever it is, whatever happens, plants are resilient! Each winter they die a little death, and come back full force in the spring. No chubby baby foot will keep grass down for long. Picking a flower will never kill a plant (although, I do not believe we should be picking flowers, period- a story for another day). They're so simple, yet we are so like them. (I'm not calling humans simple, calm down). So here, in wintry Chicago, away from many of my loved ones, I

Wild

As many others do, I love being in nature. I adore it and relish the moments when I can sit and be within it. It's lamentable how living in a city can displace us from nature so profoundly, to the point where a tree or a flower can seem out of place. We must seek it out, protect it, and remember that we are no different from the beetles, squirrels, wolves, and rock-leaf-river... we are bound together. (Zion National Park, Utah- P.Desai, 2009) ~ A Wild Thing~ What is it about the wild that draws us in- like a magnet? So consistently. Have we never seen a honeysuckle or a field of clover? Have we never felt the sweet sting of tall weeds or the laughter of rain? Have we never smelled lavender when it was still a bush in the ground? Or shuddered a thrilling shiver at a coyote's howl? Maybe... maybe not... but this I know: When we come in contact with the wild, We remember. We remember the wild, free side of ourselves. The innocent. The untouched. The pure, primev

A nod to the science of inquiry

Being a doctoral student and pondering my own future research has led to some interesting questions for me. Aside from How am I going to get up in five hours and make it to that meeting on time? and Which coffee shop will have the shortest line and  be the most satisfying at 6:45 am? I wonder about other things, too: What is at the core of research, science, and discovery? What is it that we are really after? Why is there a such a deep seated need to provide empirical evidence for something? I can tell you lack of sleep is going to have some pretty nasty effects on me if I keep it up- I don't need an article to make me understand that. Yet, we need the research; we need something to trust in that is indisputable. Ahh... so we're looking for something that is indisputable? If you have read The Celestine Prophecy  by James Redfield, you may get what I'm talking about here (if you haven't, put it at the top of your reading list- NOW!). We are searching externally for ans

Starting Something New

There is a thrill in starting something new and a deeper thrill in revealing a part of myself to others. Right now, I am in raptures! After having journaled, written poetry, prose, and (some) short stories for years, I am proud to share them with you. After having photographed, painted, scribbled, and sketched my way through life, I am excited to show them off a bit (paintings get lonely on walls). I'm happy to get feedback on the poetry and art that is posted here and I'd love to hear your thoughts on some of my thoughts. I bid you adieu with this stunning thought: "With our lives, we make our answers all the time, to this ravenous, beautiful, mutilated, gorgeous world" (Victoria Safford) Tickled to death to be here doing this, Poonam