Kanishq Banka

Caude Monet: Winter on the Seine Lavacourt

These winds of winter remind
Me of your coldness.
Strangely enough, even
This rumination is soothing.
The Cryptic cold silences of
Your gaze, and the indifferent
Icicles of your fingers numbing mine;
Like frozen crimson fire, which
Burns the thoughts akin to the
Leaves fluttering in the harmony of autumn,
Creating ripples in the mirror of poetry.
These winds of winter remind
Me of your coldness,
As they lift the veil of life,
Unveiling the misty death.
Joy once that brought rapture,
Now turns to cyclical verses of anguish,
These winds of winter, remind me of you.

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The Magpie by Claude Monet

Winter arrived yesterday evening
With soft and nimble steps
On the brown leaves in the courtyard,
With a whiff of crisp dusk
And blunt-needle-ends, it
Caressed the unguarded skin.
The sun, dissolving on the horizon
Had an aroma of dewdrops.
The crescent of the moon
Peeked out hesitantly, and nudged
On the blanket of haze.
Winter arrived yesterday evening,
Leaving the fingers cold and
Breaths white.
The warmth of your pillow,
Once more felt like the pocket
Of personal heaven,
Long gone with the dirge of
The past departing winters.

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Vincnt Van Gogh — Oleander

A fever, a dream,
A pillow of crimson oleander.
Poetry of a distant, radiant star,
A delusion, a mirage
Of blossoms on autumn’s first morn.
A feeble figment of imagination,
The holiness of heart’s affection,
Fine excesses of a fiercer hell,
A devotion writ on water and time,
An embrace of thunderbolts,
Toxicity of thy starry gaze.
Not spring, nor autumn,
It is the season of thee, I yearn for.
A fever, a dream,
A pillow of crimson oleander.

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Would I feel the same?

Jan Davidszoon de Heem — Still-Life of Books

Without words, would I feel the same?
Like mountains hidden in clouds,
Would the heart still be dubious?
Without words how would I tell you
About the flake that landed on me
And merged into my essence,
Like your shadow did?
Without words, how would I confess
That the rhythm of my beats now matches yours?
Without words, wouldn’t it be simpler,
Where our souls would converse
Without hesitation and judgments?
Without words, wouldn’t you know
That in this paradox of life,
Extremes of the continuum make the whole?
Without words, we would be free, for us
To give in to the naive abandonment of joys
Of the little moments that kiss us without
Past or future, where the moment is infinite.
And yet, words they are, to tell you, what
Words can never encapsulate.

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Starry Night Over the Rhone — Vincent Van Gogh

Let’s leave our shoes behind
And jump into the puddle of
Cold moonlight.
Let’s take that tear-stained face
Off the pillows on the dark nights,
Without any mask, and meet
In the glow of distant snow.
Let’s gather our vulnerabilities,
And our insecure hearts, and
Confess, what words never can.
Let’s hold a knife together and stab
The treacherous past, and in its blood,
Bathe, freeing ourselves of time.
Let’s leave our shoes behind
And jump into the puddle of
Cold moonlight,
Where shadows and souls dance
On the beats of breaths and
The tune of life.

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