Winged Victory of Samothrace, (aka Nike, the Greek goddess of victory) housed in Louvre; Medium: Graphite Pencils (8B, 6B, 2B) on Cartridge paper
ODE TO NIKE
O Winged Nike, O Victoria!
Wait for me, welcome me -
a praise on your lips,
a laurel wreath from Olympians,
the sea-spray kissing your feet,
the strong winds trembling in your presence.
For I shall return - triumphant.
Bones aching,
knuckles bruised,
waving my bloody sword
and their severed heads.
a praise on your lips,
a laurel wreath from Olympians,
the sea-spray kissing your feet,
the strong winds trembling in your presence.
For I shall return - triumphant.
Bones aching,
knuckles bruised,
waving my bloody sword
and their severed heads.
- Manasi Mathur // House of No Sleep
Inspiration: Natraj, Hoysaleswara Temple aka Halebidu Temple, Karnataka
ODE TO NATRAJ
O, Lord of Dancers,
let thy matted tresses fly.
Create, preserve,
and then destroy.
Sound the Damru across the universe
and dance to its heartbeat
supress the the dwarf demon of ignorance
for an eternity under thy bejewelled feet.
Create, preserve,
and then destroy.
Sound the Damru across the universe
and dance to its heartbeat
supress the the dwarf demon of ignorance
for an eternity under thy bejewelled feet.
- Manasi Mathur // House of No Sleep
Medium : Soft Pastels on Cartridge paper
Her hands speak a silent language
of mesmerizing elegance.
Her eyes are a dangerous place to lay in:
they can swallow you whole.
She can calm the raging ocean;
she can stir up storms on a bright, sunny day,
Simply by the way her feet decide to touch the ground.
Her glares can turn a heart stone-cold,
and her stance can melt a frozen heart.
The sound of her jingling bangles,
the rhythmic beat of the ghunghroos
kissing her ankles
can make you crave her presence
for days on end.
You’d wish you could wear
the fragrance of the freshly-picked flowers
wrapped around her hair,
like some perfume specially brewed for you.
You’d wish you were the extended eyeliner
she chooses to wear-
forever kissing her temples.
of mesmerizing elegance.
Her eyes are a dangerous place to lay in:
they can swallow you whole.
She can calm the raging ocean;
she can stir up storms on a bright, sunny day,
Simply by the way her feet decide to touch the ground.
Her glares can turn a heart stone-cold,
and her stance can melt a frozen heart.
The sound of her jingling bangles,
the rhythmic beat of the ghunghroos
kissing her ankles
can make you crave her presence
for days on end.
You’d wish you could wear
the fragrance of the freshly-picked flowers
wrapped around her hair,
like some perfume specially brewed for you.
You’d wish you were the extended eyeliner
she chooses to wear-
forever kissing her temples.
- Manasi Mathur // House of No Sleep
Inspiration: The Great Wave off Kanagawa ; Medium: Black Ink on Cartridge paper
OFF-SHORE MUSING
Through the tugs and pulls and highs and lows,
Along horizons of glistening blues;
Over ripening reefs and islands uninhabited,
Past depths beyond measures and shallow lagoons;
Beyond sand-soaked shores, among adrift shoals,
Across furious wildernesses, behind timid blooms;
Moon-soaked and sun-kissed since times bygone,
Lost and found, (deemed) dead and reborn -
My hamartia :
loving with the fury of a thousand storms.
- Manasi Mathur // House of No Sleep
Medium: Oil Pastel & Graphite Pencils on Ivory paper
Look closely.
Closer.
Closer still.
We're dancing on the burning decks, can't you see?
These dark waters mirror the bright yellow flickering flames,
and in the air -
burning eyes and choking windpipes,
are ashes
of a mind
once sane.
Closer.
Closer still.
We're dancing on the burning decks, can't you see?
These dark waters mirror the bright yellow flickering flames,
and in the air -
burning eyes and choking windpipes,
are ashes
of a mind
once sane.
- Manasi Mathur // House of No Sleep
Medium: Watercolour on Cartridge
I am a flower, fragile
A red rose resting
in a vase filled with water
up to its neck.
A symbol of someone
and something t
hat was,
but no longer is.
but no longer is.
- Manasi Mathur // House of No Sleep
