Pushparaj Acharya

 

Arthur Lismer’s Bud Altar, Georgian Bay

The rhythmic whole is now perceptible
in the still of the turbulent forest

where life em-barks, grows, expands, creeps, crooks, decays,
blooms, breaks, bruises, fruits, falls, twists, pales, putrefies,
is soaked, clutched, sapped, mossed, tossed, gnawed, eaten, eating,
pulsates, regenerates

where the pines rise and rack
where the dark trunks tumble upon the dusky stones
where the leaves proliferate greener, deeper
where the grass exposes its objects, desires

where the centre is the circle
where the contradictions meet and disappear
where wood, soil, rock, land, swamp, water, sky
interpenetrate each other and transfigure 
where the bright light illuminates the colours
where the life-forms inanimate, animate
conglomerate, gyrate, sublimate
where a steady silence conducts the forestrial orchestras
where a ceaseless flow of tranquility emanates from the vortex

The altar is a revelation
Nature reframes life in art

Look at its core for a moment
it stares back at you 

Lionel LeMoine FitzGerald’s Clouds over the Woods

Time mellows over the woods
swaying towards the Autumn
A lush wind glides beneath the clouds
thrilling the earth and the trees

The mushroom sky swells like a gossamer dome
lapping the landscape

It rises like the waves
that may roar and crash
or explode

stirring the graphite strokes! 

The clouds arise and fade
into the dreams
leaving some imprints behind
in the memory-scapes

In them dissolve
the one who was pursued
the one in pursuit

The mind makes its materials
from the spectres thrown into vision
They manifest in void, on a canvas
as a world etched above a world
a world layered beneath another
a world inside a world

Time becomes the Prairie sky
striding over the grasslands

Barker Fairley’s Prince Edward County, Clump Behind

The house and the clump present me
with a singular problem:
What do I see when I see them?

I have two sets of memories
both distinct and separate
yet stubbornly concomitant
and trespassing each other

The first are the reminiscences
of the village houses by the narrow dirt trails
among the layers of terraced rice fields
A hill thwarts the cold air from the Himalayas

Second are the recollections of the homesteads and farms
that move as fast as the Via Rail and disappear in a blink
along the miles and miles of land
The trees, bushes and shrubs huddle like a hill
blocking the view, breaking the wind

Nothing survives the vastness without a cuddle
Amidst a lonesome farm, the house nurtures
a hearth of memories, care, and warmth

The fence posts are old
The sky emulates the earth’s textured tints and hues
At the chimney, the emotions of the house blend
with those of the clump
House endures, house hopes
It waits for a return

As I close my eyes,
the vivid contours resurface—
the pure forms of all things
transfigured by their spirits

Emily Carr’s Yellow Moss

Waves make the world 
like some small strings and tiny threads
flow, flowed, flowing

they shine to
those eyes
that see in a particular way
a look is an interpretation
some may say

perhaps
not always

at least
not when the moss
is looking at you

it is not human interpretation

it is just
as it is

everything
stirs

when
the moss glosses

into the soul