Creator's Child Writes

 

 

The Peacock

By Dharmender Dhammy

 

"What an absolutely Marvellous Fable."

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He was a painter. He had very few works to his credit.

At present, he is very much haunted by one of the creative images, which is taking all his time and energy. He initiated giving rough outlines to it after thinking through for a long time. It used to disturb him quite often. It used to shake him completely. It even started consuming not just his youthful days, but years. At times, a single stroke used to take 2-3 years! Colours blended with one another to give it a shape. Many years passed by. It also occurred to him, that many a times he used to come closer to his work imagining something and would not able to go further, in fact he's not even able to brush a stroke for years.

Until, the day approached... when the last stroke of the brush would be placed... he dreaded it, longed for it, waited for it... yes, the last stroke... that would complete the image that had haunted him for such a long time!

After that final stroke on the canvass! He could see something emerging, something… something was emerging out of the canvas!

And it... it resembled a colourful peacock!! What a beautiful peacock! With such beautiful colours!! It gave an impression, that it actually had life.

Dumbstruck he slowly moved towards the canvas!

A feather moved. The neck turned. The feet stirred. The peacock started moving slowly. It jumped out of the canvas and slowly spread its wings and started dancing.

Oh! What a dance! Shining wings! Bright colours! Rhythmic movement of the peacock! That was just out of the world!

Once it started dancing, it filled the whole environment with so much of joy! it looked as though happiness took the shape of a peacock and it started dancing..

Then it started taking off in the air! As it moved, it gave an impression that it was the realization of joy!

When he came out of that mood, he started yelling- “Its Mine, Its Mine!” He continued to yell and started moving towards the peacock to get hold of it.

The Peacock realized his intentions, started moving backwards hesitantly.

But the painter was not in a mood to understand that. He started moving forward, The Peacock kept on moving backwards with apprehension.

It was completely shaken off and shouted - “ Don't keep on yelling like this. Do not make an effort to catch hold. This perception is yours, magical dance is mine. Do not desire to have me. Do not desire to touch or catch me. If you desire to have me, it is going to be tragical!”

The Painter became mad about it and replied- “No! No! You're mine, I want you!” He started running behind the peacock. He started running and chasing it!

As he chased, it jumped into the air and took off!! It soared high. It flew farther and higher and started extending itself over the sky!! All the colours of the peacock started getting blended into one! All the colours blended and it become deep blue!!.

It turned in to blue sky over his head.

"Shine Forth & Spread my word."

- God; Through Celia

   

Raindrops

   

 

By Tanya Tyagi, first posted on August 6, 2012  

Colors of rain droplets
pink – on the heavy heart
red – on the cradle
purple – on the dim neon lights brightening the dark alleys
a shade of yellow – on the reignited spirit
a heady mix of orange and grey – on the lover's last orgasm
what color do you carry walking through the pitter-patter of million tiny ones?

 

Delightful, something so common-place and yet so universal. Something everywhere and yet so rainbowed.

 

Flight

 

Drycleaners

 

By Tanya Tyagi, first posted on August 6, 2012  

She does her dishes, she sweeps the desk of its rusted stench and then she flies
She looks in the basket for an extra pear and then she flies,
She gives her ideas and gentle smack and then she flies.
Looking at the discounts she naturally smiles,
thinking of ways to ruffle the feathers dry, she flies.

 

"I have sent my wings to the drycleaners,
so in this life, I must walk."

Here is a poem related to the one that Tanya has written, that I wrote a decade ago.

 

 

Today a happy wind rose up…
( 12 Jan, 03, Sunday Morning, written by the wind, translated by me. Tarun Cherian)

 

The everyday & the astral link hands here. .

 

Today a happy wind rose up and shook my hair as if I were a tree and all my leaves whispered and branches swayed and my sap rose delicious to my crown then slowly like the scent of my sex spread like a skirt falling on the surprised man walking beneath.

Today a happy wind rose up, like the ones that blew in childhood, the ones that stirred the still galleon, that the less gifted see is paper boat, in the pond to action, dizzying round, though the sailors don't object being intrepid adventurers all, the dark armoured beetle – the pirate king, the red stone – little john, the rainbowed yellow wing – the friendly wizard, the blood-brown dried leaf, the sail.

Today a happy wind rose up and leaf danced in circles holding hands and giggling, leaping our dancer bodies lithe about the heavy feet of a man, woman that suddenly change to match our feet and join the circle for awhile.

Today a happy wind rose up and all my fears, my hates, my campaigns, my next meditation student, my sadness like dried grass, all lifted and breathed a little deeper, then rose up and scattered out of the window of my being and I did not run after them, but let them go…

Today a happy wind rose up and stirred the dulled surface of the pond of my mind, my dog is sniffing at, and suddenly I see it is no pond, but lake rippling, shivering, calming, joying, turning into puddle merely not to scare my child-heart feet, attached to near 40 shouldered years, from splashing through.

Today a happy wind rose up, perhaps it came from your side of the globe, or maybe a higher place, even higher than the cloud, no matter, with lifted heart and these words like dried leaf tumbling in the giddy wind, I send it your way, send it on.

 

 

"When i write a world comes into being, a flower, a space of emptiness growing like a balloon in which a thousand dances sing."

- God; The Wind beneath the Hurl, Through Tarun

 

 

This is your space, joy-giver, wind-singer, life-teacher...