Painting Her

On the white canvas of ideas I pictured her as a fairy,
The most beautiful woman. It would be shame if I didn’t paint her.
I had met her on terrace. She had come to dry clothes.
She would look at me, hiding behind them. I too would blush.
Oh! She was an epitome of beauty, serenity and innocence,
Lurking in red dress, amidst the fluttering pigeons and clothes.

I made her posture, painted the beautiful ambience around her.
She laughed and said I cannot make half her beauty on canvas.
I knew if she would stare at me, I couldn’t even draw her.
Her chin I turned to her right, revealing locks kissing her cheek.

I pasted her face on canvas. But it wasn’t her jovial face.
That was real her, which I have learnt in her company.
I couldn’t forge her as smiling and brimming with happiness.
So real seemed her problems, that which my art failed to hide.

I tell her always that I will never leave her, whatsoever happens.
But I know she feels lonely in her core essence, one that I cannot rule.
She has a luring posture, that which the world in her sees, but
Alone she sits on a rock that is high above the ground, waiting.
She never tells me whom she waits for, or if she wants me to go away.
And when she sits there on the rock, weeds around captivate her.

Back on the terrace, when I had learnt not to blush and she meant
To reveal her bliss, throwing kisses at me, I would love her freedom.
Dreams she had were to relish a night by the river, fly butterflies,
Break stars from sky and sleep overnight on the moon. I should have
Feared the freedom, what would happen when she doesn’t have it.
The wings she had were set on fire. No more could she fly off the rock.

She was finally painted on the white canvas as a fairy indeed.
But captivated in immortal pain and depression, with desires that of humans.
She is alone, the black sun or the moon, reluctant to show her shadow,
As if she would cripple on seeing her lot, or would she burn herself.
Wind blows away her locks, spreading ashes off her fairy wings.
I hope the ashes reach the one she wants. I could, well, sit and paint.

"Good writing takes more than just time; it wants your best moments and the best of you."

Painting thrown away

You started framing me.
It was a nice wooden frame,
beautifully carved patterns,
flowers twined with leaves,
varnished with a darker tinge,
sprinkled with soft silver.

I was a canvas but blank.
You had pictured me,
how you would paint me,
where the river would flow,
what colours daises spurt,
and hills afar kiss the sky.

Then I was tested on frame.
The glass was fixed firm,
slipped me behind them,
widowed me with no colours
reflected by the glass pane,
yet the eyes assuring to me.

Finally I was put on board.
I was clipped on all edges,
submitting to his dedication,
stroked me for many days,
with different hues and brushes,
until I was coated all over.

I was packed into the frame.
My colors were on the glass,
many a artist visited me,
some adjusting their glasses,
touching the frame (but not me),
few also philosophizing me.

I stayed for days on the wall.
Loved by all and respected,
wallowing in my beauty,
when many friends were gone.
He would come too and stare
- something achieved in me.

Then I was abandoned.
I parted with the wall,
excited where to I head now,
but ripping I was thrown,
edges of the frame cleaned,
abandoning me on the floor.


"Good writing takes more than just time; it wants your best moments and the best of you."