Skin has Memory-Smashed face Update

|We Must|

Give us a reason to die-death
There is none but all must.

Even the sun
And with it the Moon

All we see perishes
All we live dies in that moment

The stars die slowly
A twinkling death to dark

A fox howls in pain
Deep in the night.

Sun eYe

The sun has eyes,
Two million and one,
It looks at all,
But One at you,
Do you see that yellow halo?

Dashain 2012

Nothing has changed
Nine Years Twenty two the same
Empty Dashain House.

Smashed Face

As much as I would like to party the "we" into me and I's and the sighs of the unseen and unforeseen elements of which we naturally become such dramatic players, I must confess that for a lifetime this smashed face is enough and I would like to brood on it on my own which seems to be rather the only way out for the deceased and the dead but I suppose this world has its own dynamics that foray into establishments and understandings of the fragile mind that sometimes can even be amusing that you can let a little hahaha like laugh out.

Fly

I tried
You denied
I tried
You took a flight
I tried
You still denied
I cried
You were right

"Always stay in love with life, you have so many things to fly for"

So I plucked my wings and flew away.

And I love my life.

Song

A song must be sung like a singer should sing
Of all things of beauty and bounty of being
Of cigarettes and whisky and muses you seek
A singer should die for a song to be written

A song must be sung like a singer should sing
Thoughts must be killed for songs to be written
I have murdered my fingers and guitar strings
For a song to be written for the singer to sing

A song must be sung like a singer should sing
Of Love and Poetry and melodies unwritten

A Song by the Fireplace

When you are lost, hopeless and homeless,
The earth is shelter and night sky your food.

When tears fall down your cheeks,
And no one remembers that you exist,
You seek guidance in belief and lay down your thoughts
On little pebbles that get washed in the rain
Hoping feeling fearing that all will be well.


When the sun smiles tomorrow
Praying trembling crying you hope
That tears will dry and smiles will return.

When you are lost, hopeless and homeless,
You remember the mansion your parents built,
The warm heaters and colourful blankets,
The fire place that burnt with big logs of life and laughter,
And then you know that you never wanted no home, no love, no place,
That it was your choice to wonder forth into the world.
And yours alone.

To seek what?
To experience what?
To meet who?
To live where?

Good stories are never written in books,
They are first lived.

From tears of fountain,
And years of pain,
A book I will write someday in disdain,
By the fireplace I will read,
My own life as it unfurled,
Warm and cozy near the ambers of yesteryears,
As tears roll down my wrinkled lips,
I will remember all the tears that kissed my lips,
When I was once lost, hopeless and homeless.

Flower's Fall

one by one the petals fall,
the flower is dead
and so is the bee,
the honey remains deep in the sea,
suckle them
carefully,
those memories.

To The Tobacco Act Victims in Jail

When all with sight are blind,
Only the blind can see,
When dumb people talk,
Those who can- cut their tongues,
Stitch their hearts and burn nine lives,
The fire blazes silently,
The chimney cries with white swirls of smoke,
Burnt are those lives,
To amber and ash,
A phoenix would rise,
But dead men don't walk.

Oxford Graduation

MSc. Biodiversity Conservation and Management. My lucky stars :))

London be Good to Me

Dearest London,

It is good to be back and you look like you have been doing well. But you are a very expensive city. The most expensive I believe and only the first few days here are always glorious. Going to Tate Modern, soaking myself in art and watching artists pass by, people, they all look so beautiful here, one more than the other. Outwardly yes, inside? Don't really know, a bit on the not very emotional side usually, emotion is not elegance? Display the British way- minimalism.

Alright, now I need a job. I can work for food and I even have a fancy degree from Oxford. I am so employable!

London, please find me a job and I want to live like a Londoner. London be good to me, I have high hopes from you. My story of struggle to get here, will enchant you and this is the story of the first Bhutanese woman to Oxford, it has to be something that will baffle you. I am history- I made myself as one I suppose.

Maybe I should write a book someday.

Okay London, just to reiterate, a JOB yes? I look nice in a suit- really.


Thank you,


Much Love,

M

My Self

Tonight I set myself free,
from the little circles stuck in my head,
that take me back and forth to the dungeons of memories,
sprinkled with seeds of yesteryears,
smelling of ripened today,
green
and blue
and gray
and pink
and they all look the same,
I am blind for I see only black,
and white when the sun shines a bit too bright into my eyes,
I rub them off with a colourful smile : ).
Tonight I set myself free
from
my
self.

Much Remembered

Much forgotten
Much remembered
Sickly fingers and
Butter coast hands
Much forgotten
Much remembered
Ginger hands
and Garlic Toes
Much forgotten
Much remembered
You are mine and
I am yours
Much forgotten
Much remembered
Let's hold hands and
finger nails,
You are mine,
and I am forever yours.

An artist’s journey from Radi to Amsterdam

Rooted in Buddhist philosophy, colours, wisdom and symbolism, Passang Tobgay’s art will take you to the colours and content of the east and the west, and many shades in between, as a Bhutanese painter struggles and journeys from a small village in Trashigang, Radi, inspired to paint ever since he was seven years old. The artist’s destiny and art and the willingness to learn and exercise his skill and promote contemporary Bhutanese art at home and in the west would take him to one of the craziest and maddeningly beautiful artistic and inspiringly so- the European city of Amsterdam in the Netherlands. Passang who is twenty eight years old today studies fine art while engaging himself every minute in an artistic endeavour of either painting, sculpting or making installation art. He pays his tuition by what he earns from the sales of his art.

Though art cannot really be defined in words but art analysts say art is content and form. Form means: the elements of art, the principles of design and the actual physical materials that the artist used. Content is idea based and means: what the artist meant to portray, what the artist did actually portray and how we react as individual and actual masses. There is always room for intentional and affective fallacies, like in any other form of art. Content also includes ways in which a work was influenced by religion, politics or society in general, at the time the work of art was created. Of course art is always open to interpretation and the best way to experience art is to surrender and “feel.”

Bhutanese art not until a decade and half or so was very much based on the strict religious iconographic rules and details of traditional art where an error in painting equaled a sin, and where artists did not sign their names. Contemporary Bhutanese art has evolved a long way since especially with establishment of VAST but is there a difference between contemporary art in Bhutan for Bhutanese and tourists who visit Bhutan and being an artist outside Bhutan catering mostly to a western crowd? It is for you to judge the journey of a traditional painter who made his way to abstract art and performance art, yet with values very much rooted in principles and colours of Buddhist philosophy.

Passang studied traditional art in Zorig Chusum for six years, worked in VAST for two and is now based in Amsterdam. Passang’s exhibition is going on in the Ayala gallery, Tarayana centre and the event was graced by HRH Ashi Sonam Dechan Wangchuck on the 6th of July. The exhibition is free and open to all and the paintings will be showcased for a month. Passang will also exhibit his work of art, paintings and installation art in London sometime this year.

Kuenga Wangmo, who will receive her Doctorate this fall from the University of Cambridge, a Bill Gates scholar and a current post doctoral fellow at the Courtauld Institute of Art, London, an Archaeologist by profession, is helping support and exhibit Passang’s art. She feels that a human society’s growth is often characterized by its art and its prominence and wishes to help and work with all upcoming artists to explore the global market.

Passang is inspired by traditional Bhutanese artists, Azha Karma, Ugyen, and western artists Rembrandt, Van Gogh, contemporary Tibetan artists and Chinese artist Ai Weiwie.

My Old Blog ID

I started blogging four or five years ago and this-then was predicted to be the next big boom. And it has been so.

My old blog still remains, with my tit bits of memories, worries, pain, joy and all emotions in between. Even naive and childish at times but it documents my growth as a person and a human being.

There is a poet in all of us, after all we were all once children ;)

The link to a Bhutanese poetess.

http://mw17destinationsearch.blogspot.com/

Lovers and their Lies

If I could look into your eyes and not see the lies,
Perhaps I am in love.

You said that thrice,
Three little words that to lovers mean the world,
And the third time I knew it better than a murmur of prayers,
They were there in your eyes,
I could read those and not the lies.

Liars lie with their eyes,
Lovers love with their heart,
What is so new about it all?
Love and deception are the best of friends,
Love remains while the lover cheats,
In the end in hell we shall meet?

I wear my breasts and my bones,
Like it was the best apparel I chose,
If there was another form I could be,
Would I sing a song as an ant looking into another ant’s eyes?

Only a woman could see lies in her lover's eyes
And believe them until love flies.

Imagination can be absurd, not that the world is not

When instead of buttons you find holes,
Instead of socks its gloves,
The paper writes on the pen,
The moon shines at daytime and the sun at night,
Is that a mad man’s world or mine own?

When laughter seems like a scream,
A wrinkle a sign of growing younger,
Would babies look like grandfathers?
And grandmothers like toddlers?
What if aging meant growing younger?
How then is old age a second childhood?
Are these a mad man’s thoughts or mine own?

When logic fails to reason,
Imagination knows no reason,
Nor no season,
It spurts like a tree with its leaves in the ground,
Branches as roots and rootlets as leaves
How then would the world be?

How then would the world be if tigers mowed on grass,
And cows ate humans?
Chicken shat on us and for dinner we were on their plate?

What if gorillas were writing poems,
Orangutans chirping like birds,
The belly dancer was the fox,
The elephant the mistress of the ant?
How then would the world be?

Are these a mad woman’s thoughts or mine own?

And

and all these days that pass with the sun half down when am half up, the gentle afternoon breeze that shakes willow tress, the murmur of the bees and the wilting dance of petals in the rain, the sky an azure blue, the clouds shining in the rain, rainbows play hide and seek, a romantic sighs at the passing beauty.

Soliloquy of the Wind

tonight the wind sang me a soliloquy,

the pigeons and sparrows hushed and listened,

the fire flies danced till they burnt themselves to death,

the clouds moved impatiently to hear them from near,

the wind sang endlessly till the song was a summer's chance,

only the ears that could listen heard the glorious night dancing to the beat of time.