Memoirs of an Ardent Particularist

About Me

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Suffice it to say that I am an ardent particularist. What this means is that I like to look at the particulars (Duh!). So for example, I like the deep furrows on a withered tree trunk, the jet black curly hair of a woman walking past me, the swing of a very short skirt on the behind of a girl in front of me, the sunflower like irises in my husband's blue pupils, the soft and gentle curves of his body, the shape of a pebble that skirts off the tyres of a truck at a construction site, the toc-toc-toc of the table tennis ball on the table, the feel of a full mango fruit in the palm of your hand, a bowl of translucent, red, pomegranate seeds, the speckled sunlight on a patch of grass under a tree, the deep yearning for someone you care about and love, the deep sense of grief when you have to forget someone you love, the mixture of white steamed rice and pink oleander petals strewn on the cold dark stone tile of the temple, the smell of a decaying banana leaf, the pungent smell of a raw mango just fallen from the tree, the clang of utensils and the clamour of sundry voices and stray dogs infused with the smell of boiling tea as India wakes to life every morning, and so on...

Thursday, April 23, 2009

Serenading Forgotten Daffodils

I saw bunches of daffodils
At the supermarket.
Arrested by their effervescent yellowness.
Pale delicate petals
On reed-like green stems,
Four-nintey-nine for four.
With long mouths like a carp's,
Fringed with delicate shrivels
And framed by a plate of
Soft, sheer, yellow petals.
So evocatively described in the
Words of Wordsworth
As to preclude ordinary mortals
With illusions of poetic skills
From ever serenading these bunches
Of soft, cool sunshine
Commoditized by the supermarket.

--GST

posted by Gayatri | 9:14 PM | 0 comments