Nine Rasas

Love and lust,

one the same,

Sringara

Cauldron’s boil,

Temper’s spill

Ravdra

Mourning with

Compassionate arms

Karuna

Dark passages persist

Monsters linger depths unknown

Bhayanaka

Vile tumult’s rise within

Nausea paint’s a grimace flush to skin

Bibhasta

Vigor tango’s vis-à-vis,

As heroes call deafens doubt

Vira

Laughter wells eyes in joy

While ridicule enlists the salt therein

Hasya

A first skyline exposed

To an unsuspecting glance

Adbhuta

Halcyon, charming wind and wave

Spreads calm unto horizons far

Santa

Spatiality gathers sheaf’s abundant.

Place procures fields for harvest’s green

Rasa awakens

A centrality of energy

Engages physicality’s line

Sushumna, gravity breathes

Shape-shifting altruisms bend perception taut

Aligning eternal stage, set for actor and audience alike

Herein resides the locus of Rasa

Unlocking sensorial rhythm’s

Brandishing pleasures unbeknownst to hue

Permanence abides the spindle’s truth

Weaving abhinaya

Emotions are evoked,

Accessed, then tasted true

Rasa’s essence aspires unto

Boundaries shared in man

Even breath alone can balance

The humors of flesh

Cloth of table spans word and sight

Preparing for presentations feast

It is known Sthayi bhavas  

Will appear once taste’s expression

Overflows; generating

enactment of the nine

I hope everyone had a great New Years and will carry that greatness throughout the upcoming year and beyond.  With each new year that comes, new hope spins it's web, and sorrow hopefully remains in the past.  Poetry is a way that man can grasp hold of emotion and paint it into a tapestry to wear the entirety of the upcoming year and beyond. So, how perfect is it that 2013 opens up on a Tuesday.  Tuesdays and poetry have become synonymous and lets all go celebrate our poetry together over at D'Verse, where Open Link Night, fittingly kicks off the New Year right.

Sashay (Suburban Slake)

listen to ‘Sashay (Suburban Slake)’ on Audioboo

Sashay to chasse

the heel’s followed close

by feet that flow—

so smooth, it seems

as if the toes really do

float

Antigone, a girl,

condemned to death

in a tragic display,

disobeyed

the edict of a king, which

forbid the flames to encompass

the air, avoiding the traditional

sense of burial…

Toggled in immaterial surrounds—

you peer the sky for answers found,

and while minutes fleece the glass it’s

sand, down stream tears to salten your

already softened cheeks—twas when hazed

eyes did glimmer, a reflection of a sinner—daft

as the street kids would call, scaling long the rails

beside that radiating hall…

In seconds sweetly tripping breath, your blood curdled

but not cold—for destiny had, in such a somber sequence

of might, may have offered you a second chance—as here the glass

of emptiness wince would not, and there, the ledge unseen

appeared as clear as dry your voice had been…and sidling

across you’re form inched slow, until opened a concealing grate, where frame and pane connect, but are not the same, but enough is much for foot to foot to enter most forward

of arch to heel, and into safety’s unsure blanket once more…revealed

First you drank your thirst aright, and then…then

you joined your truth there at dawn

after sashaying deep

until the night

was all but 

gone