From my sketch book....

These pen and ink drawings are part of a series entitled, 'Studies- Hands, What lies beneath' which became the basis of a painting displayed at an exhibition in July 2008. You can read more about it here.

The Third Eye

I made this painting entitled "The Third Eye" a couple of years ago. The third eye is a mystical and esoteric concept in certain Eastern and Western traditions. It is the gateway to inner realms and higher states of consciousness. It is associated with solitary visions and heightened perceptions. In Hinduism and Buddhism, it symbolizes Nirvana. To be able to use the third eye is to be intuitive and imaginative. It implies self mastery and unimpaired concentration. The image of Buddha immediately comes to mind....
P.S It also happens to be the first painting I ever sold.

The Fish by Elizabeth Bishop

I would like to share with you one of my favourite poems by Elizabeth Bishop. An American poet and writer, she is considered to be one of the most distinguished poets of the 20th century. Enjoy!

The Fish

I caught a tremendous fish
and held him beside the boat
half out of water, with my hook
fast in a corner of his mouth.
He didn't fight.
He hadn't fought at all.
He hung a grunting weight,
battered and venerable
and homely. Here and there
his brown skin hung in strips
like ancient wallpaper,
and its pattern of darker brown
was like wallpaper:
shapes like full-blown roses
stained and lost through age.
He was speckled and barnacles,
fine rosettes of lime,
and infested
with tiny white sea-lice,
and underneath two or three
rags of green weed hung down.
While his gills were breathing in
the terrible oxygen
--the frightening gills,
fresh and crisp with blood,
that can cut so badly--
I thought of the coarse white flesh
packed in like feathers,
the big bones and the little bones,
the dramatic reds and blacks
of his shiny entrails,
and the pink swim-bladder
like a big peony.
I looked into his eyes
which were far larger than mine
but shallower, and yellowed,
the irises backed and packed
with tarnished tinfoil
seen through the lenses
of old scratched isinglass.
They shifted a little, but not
to return my stare.
--It was more like the tipping
of an object toward the light.
I admired his sullen face,
the mechanism of his jaw,
and then I saw
that from his lower lip
--if you could call it a lip
grim, wet, and weaponlike,
hung five old pieces of fish-line,
or four and a wire leader
with the swivel still attached,
with all their five big hooks
grown firmly in his mouth.
A green line, frayed at the end
where he broke it, two heavier lines,
and a fine black thread
still crimped from the strain and snap
when it broke and he got away.
Like medals with their ribbons
frayed and wavering,
a five-haired beard of wisdom
trailing from his aching jaw.
I stared and stared
and victory filled up
the little rented boat,
from the pool of bilge
where oil had spread a rainbow
around the rusted engine
to the bailer rusted orange,
the sun-cracked thwarts,
the oarlocks on their strings,
the gunnels--until everything
was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow!
And I let the fish go.























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On Love Unrequited

A Gothic love poem...


On the couch she lies, languid and still,
On her lips, a quiver.
While behind her, beyond the window sill,
The creature secretly hovers.

He watches intently the numerous folds,
In her sumptuous silken gown.
His eye traces the threads of gold,
With which her raiment abounds.

He counts the rounded bony knobs,
Of her spine that curves like a snake,
He envisions it slithering beneath the cloth,
Leaving venom in its wake.

And her neck which is so sleek and fair,
Is covered with beads of sweat.
Of a sudden she removes a strand of hair,
Revealing further, the smooth cervical breadth.

Of her locks, so lustrous and fine,
He has dreamt through many a restless night.
The luscious tresses, swirling like vines,
Have ensnared his heart, clutching it tight.

In time the maiden sinks deeper and deeper,
Into a world of dreams and lore,
While beyond the window, amongst the creepers,
The hunchback quietly mourns.

He looks up towards the sky and utters,
A silent cry of pain,
Under his breath he feverishly mutters,
Maledictions against a Fate so cruel and vain.

For he has been cursed with an appearance so ghastly,
That none without a shudder can behold,
The ashen countenance, the cadaverous rigidity,
Of his gait, leaving mortals unsettled and cold.

Like a spectre he haunts the woods at night,
Always furtive and alone,
Hiding in the dark from humankind,
His grim and weary load.

And at times, when the moon is full,
You might hear his tragic moans,
As he mourns his love for this woman,
A Beauty he shall never hold.