Sunday, February 22, 2009

Mani Suri


Stay the projector,
Freeze that frame,
Let shine that single still,
The solitary, celluloid cell,
Stained with the colors of life,
On the argentum screen:
A landscape,
A portrait,
A still life.

Stop the flow of life,
See life's image still
The bee in mid-buzz,
The hover now a vision
Of suspension
In mid-air,
The fluttering petals
Of its intended blossom
Suddenly quiet,
Expectant, the brimming nectar
Stopped in mid-brim.

Hold a glass to this moment,
Not so singular
And yet particular;
Examine the squint in her eyes,
Know the sun, too bright,
Hides her lover's approach,
His intentions cloaked in the curl of his smile.
Note the shadows of her cheeks and chin and nose,
Their interplay with the dappling light.
They would not be, were it not for their shadows.

The director saw this frame
But only vaguely
In the kinema of his mind,
Shrouded in veils of imagination,
Unsure of the author's intentions
For this scene.
Now, it was a real image,
Yet an imitation
Of reality:
The reality of a moment
In a fictional saga.

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