

To the people
To my dear readers and friends, a long poem in 7 Chants, paying homage to the Freedom Fighters, those people who worked to achieve the independence of India. Also a declaration of love, and the last poem in the Pink Book of Passion. Bharat: how the Indians call India, a country that is the unity of a common conscience, a civilization. I hope you enjoy it! With love and care, Ana Paula Arendt Delivered to the people (To Sarojini Naidu and her readers) I Freedom fighters¹, they


Gopuram
Gopuram* Ana Paula Arendt A gateway to heaven amidst the confusion of the world, heaven: a clean, sacred space where shoes are left behind. Heaven: where prayers are heard with compassion and reverence. This gateway is pure bliss: a vertical mountain covered with the legends of those who fought for justice and light. Ladder, stairway of sight, all three eyes scaling the higher grounds of the soul… From muladhara, a generous base, foundation of flesh and loins receiving and gi


Chennai’s old trees
Image: Chennai in the 19th Century, by the photographers E. F. H. Wiele and Theodore Klein, official photographers to the Governor of Madras (renamed as the state of Tamil Nadu, in 1969, after the fall of the British Raj). The pictures were rescued by Harry Miller in the 1970s, Director of Photography of The Indian Express, with the help of Eric Stracey, Inspector General of Police. Desikan Krishnan, of The Hindu newspaper, named them “Vintage Vignettes” as a collection. Chen


Besant nagar
The Pink Sun Ana Paula Arendt I dwell upon a hidden road. I discovered where the Sun is born and keeps all pink things hidden, the instant that does not pass, unveiling the world with its luminosity. In the East, over the Indian Ocean, in Besant Nagar* the pink dawn of a limpid, tepid, liquid daybreak, suffusing minutes that do not wait, of people never done with passing, of people never done with yearning. Of Sun, never done with flashing, of a wet Sun, forever through me bu


Ecstasy
Ecstasy Ana Paula Arendt God once said to Saint Teresa d’Avila that His favourite deed and her highest achievement in love was staring at little bricks mortared into the wall while she was uninspired in adoration. Not her highest insights, not her bravest words, not her most sincere emotions. Just counting the little bricks bowed and bothered when she could not pray anymore. I could never understand the substance of that incomparable joy in God’s feelings, that ecstasy God sh




