By Shakti Bhatt
Self-Portrait as Ghost
Self-Portrait as Sleeping Ghost
Self-Portrait on Delhi Street
Self-Portrait on Holi
Dotted Line
The Crotch of My Jeans
Showing posts with label Shakti's journals. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Shakti's journals. Show all posts
14 February, 2008
20 October, 2007
(Untitled)
The belated summer's sun,
weak shadows on a brick wall.
Lauryn lyrical on the floating
screen of the machine that maintains me.
The candles at the window are ashamed
of their stripped beauty, forgetting how
they colored the night for us.
Grab me, bed, let your cool silk sedate me.
Only one thing on my mind—
free me from the family of food.
(from the journals of Shakti Bhatt)
weak shadows on a brick wall.
Lauryn lyrical on the floating
screen of the machine that maintains me.
The candles at the window are ashamed
of their stripped beauty, forgetting how
they colored the night for us.
Grab me, bed, let your cool silk sedate me.
Only one thing on my mind—
free me from the family of food.
(from the journals of Shakti Bhatt)
17 October, 2007
Cellphone Portraits
By Shakti Bhatt
Blue Cross
Delhi Airport, 3 A.M.
Reader On a Train
The Book of Imaginary Birds
12 June, 2007
Cellphone Portraits
by Shakti Bhatt
Self-portrait with pencil, New Delhi, 2007
Market Cafe, New Delhi, 2007
Airport, New Delhi, 2006
19 May, 2007
Cellphone Portraits
by Shakti Bhatt
Shoes, Bellagio, 2006
Subway, Frankfurt, 2006
Self-portrait with books, New Delhi, 2007
Self-portrait with headboard, New Delhi, 2007
Self-portrait in pink, Frankfurt, 2006
17 May, 2007
The lilies
The lilies were her favorite flowers. The leaves, each bent and curved to occupy its destined space, were striking—their deep comforting green in sharp contrast to the shocking pink of the flower's insides. The petals, each at a different stage in its career, waiting for that heightened moment that would reveal them in their ecstasy. The ones in full bloom seemed to savor their peak, oblivious of the gloom that would follow in a few days.
She rubbed her fingers against the petals' rough edges where the miniscule prickly growth aroused her skin. The long, precariously balanced tips on the internal stem, the male seed—mostly red, sometimes an even more perverse pink—looked at her as if in challenge: can you be more lovely than I?
She rubbed her fingers against the petals' rough edges where the miniscule prickly growth aroused her skin. The long, precariously balanced tips on the internal stem, the male seed—mostly red, sometimes an even more perverse pink—looked at her as if in challenge: can you be more lovely than I?
(from the journals of Shakti Bhatt)
09 May, 2007
In a corner I do not explore
In a corner I do not explore—
a large accumulation
of small griefs.
The dust is still
on each mark
left by your words.
a large accumulation
of small griefs.
The dust is still
on each mark
left by your words.
(from the journals of Shakti Bhatt)
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