Difference between revisions of "And Babarya poised"
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| − | .. before a tin moon, suspended from the ceiling, is holding my life's work, Phalke's studio, aloft in his hand. My thirteen year old son, dressed as Hanuman, bears aloft all the stories, past and present, and even the nature of how we will be forgotten or remembered in the days to come. Our lives held in a young palm that was our creation. Among the deeply etched rivers/shifting rivers, the embankments on that palm, he bears us. His eyes still unknowing, he stares at us, like you might into a doll's house. And in response to our child's call for play, Saraswati and I | + | .. before a tin moon, suspended from the ceiling, is holding my life's work, Phalke's studio, aloft in his hand. My thirteen year old son, dressed as Hanuman, bears aloft all the stories, past and present, and even the nature of how we will be forgotten or remembered in the days to come. Our lives held in a young palm that was our creation. Among the deeply etched rivers/shifting rivers, the embankments on that palm, he bears us. His eyes still unknowing, he stares at us, like you might into a doll's house. And in response to our child's call for play, Saraswati and I becoming living dolls, and relive our lives for our children. |
| − | + | I who would grab moments by the handful and pin them into the glass cases of my films shall see recaptured moments of our lives falling against each other, shrieking on their confused way to the ground. | |
| + | |||
| + | Trymbakeshvar, where I was born, lives on the banks of the holy Ganga Godavari. | ||
Revision as of 17:20, 25 June 2009
.. before a tin moon, suspended from the ceiling, is holding my life's work, Phalke's studio, aloft in his hand. My thirteen year old son, dressed as Hanuman, bears aloft all the stories, past and present, and even the nature of how we will be forgotten or remembered in the days to come. Our lives held in a young palm that was our creation. Among the deeply etched rivers/shifting rivers, the embankments on that palm, he bears us. His eyes still unknowing, he stares at us, like you might into a doll's house. And in response to our child's call for play, Saraswati and I becoming living dolls, and relive our lives for our children.
I who would grab moments by the handful and pin them into the glass cases of my films shall see recaptured moments of our lives falling against each other, shrieking on their confused way to the ground.
Trymbakeshvar, where I was born, lives on the banks of the holy Ganga Godavari.
