A. Anupama
A little ode to the orchids on my bedroom table-- They take their time and not much else. I've been sternly warned against offering too much water and light. They survived my south-facing window without complaints, without frowning. They survived my ministrations to their roots, without drowning. This, the first bloom since midsummer, gave a…
The poet Anupama tried to say something today, but all she found in her mouth were some stale ashes. She is going to drink some water and turn on some ragas. She's hoping you are doing something like this too to take away the ashes and fill your rooms with beauty, sounds. On that day ten…
The same images keep coming back. The branching of trees, the dendritic flow, the axons of nerves, bronchii. I lost a contact in my eye the other day, and the redness of my own hunting for it was the same branching out, the same flow. And now the sun is rising in front of me…
The icicles are getting long. The roads are narrow today because of the huge banks of snow extending into the street. I love this wintery white. The ice is lovely, like dripping crystals all along the edges of the houses. It looks like a painting. I was wishing I could paint pictures the other day,…
I wrote a lot more about snow while I was in Vermont last week. This was the second residency of my MFA work. I took lots of notes in the lectures again this time, but instead of leaving them all on my shelf as soon as I came home, I leafed through the notes and…
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