Divya Ramesh


“This morning, France blew up an island in the Pacific, to test a bomb. That must have been a whopper of a bomb or a zit of an island” — “Lake” by Brian Doyle

The knife in the butcher’s hand,
demise to the thrashing squab,
lunch to the woman who clinks
her wallet clasp on the counter.

The bull’s head mounted on the wall,
above a plaque in a café in Las Ventas,
Sunken brown beads reflect the staring
blue irises of a man who just cheered
from the stone seats of Plaza de Toros.
For victor and victim, each his own story.

From the snowy regolith of the moon,
Earth is the waning crescent swallowed
slowly by its shadow, and Africa is an island,
shaped like a toddler’s right fist print
on a gesso board painted blue.

Optical illusion that bestrides generations
where a grandmother’s nose becomes a
daughters chin with a second glance,

and where whispered secrets between
shadows hide behind a Rubin vase
when the figure ground reverses.

When Monet’s water lilies magnify
as O’Keefe’s calla lilies, on gold leaf,
on red, on pink, on grey, to find
the most becoming viewpoint
on which to paint a memory,

like the backdrop in the photo booth
that lives in light or lives in shadow,
capturing friendships or infatuations.
printing human faces or caricatures in
Polaroid perspective.

One point.
or two


Divya Ramesh writes; there's not much else a person can do with a Ticonderoga pencil collection.