someday

someday,
i will write a poem about you...

someday,
when my fingers have wrinkled
more than my face
from all the makeshift laughter
and the inherited sorrow,
when my tears have dried
and the scent of rose
only just lingers, fleeting
like a memory.

someday,
when the titter of children
playing in the street below
aren't very different from
birds flying past my window,
i will write a poem
about you.

when mothers no longer bury their
dead babies,
partying lovers don't drown their laughter
in tears, or shroud their tears in laughter.
someday,
when it is all silent again,
when the light has dimmed
and the noise has cleared.

someday,
when all is restored
as it was meant to be;
then on that day,
i will write that poem about you.

For Rabiya: Becoming

The face in the mirror is haggard.
Restless. Not myself.
It needs a shift. I know.

I want to learn to be more like me,
and less like him...

Him, who turns me into a ball of foil
and uncreases me,
and crumples me;
he does this a few times
before throwing me into the distance.

I want to learn to be less like that,
and more like this.

This inside. This promise of a new dawn.

That is me.

City of many seasons

There must be
something
powerful,
and beautiful,
something rather enigmatic,
about seeing the city
that you live in
turn so many shades,
show so many colours,
reveal various personas
as the seasons wash over it.

In that place that you call 'home',
sober autumns might be followed by
a bright white Christmas;
and scented springs followed by
a vibrant, raging summertime!

But, what if the same can be said of
the person that you love?

What then?

Sober moments, rare and fleeting might be
followed by blinding cold,
the winter of your Love.
Fragrant love-making, impassioned or sweet,
followed by the storms of a violent retribution.

They say that even sunshine burns if you get too much.

Either way, the seasons still wash over it;
over that place you call home.
And rest assured,
the Master Painter forever waves
a kaleidoscopic paintbrush
over that city
of your dreams.

A million days of hope...

A million stars,
A million promises,
A million days of hope.

Days of sunshine,
follow
Nights of rain.

There can only be
good to
come
of
this.

Forgive

Seek forgiveness
the wise man said.
Forgive.
Forget.
Let go.

Seek forgiveness?
the young man asked.
No, said the sage.
Seek to forgive,
and then you will find the Forgiving.

We carry the heaviness
in the pit of our bellies.
An ulcer murmurs,
rumbles,
and then ruptures.
We carry this heaviness,
hoping to heave it at the source;
and then to seek forgiveness,
but all we need
is to seek to forgive.

We need not Forget.
We need to Forgive.
And then, to
Let it go.

Can you forgive? the wise man tested.
No. Perhaps. Not I? thought the lad.
Forgive? said the man.
Yes, said the lad,
Forgive them, forget them, let it go.
Good, said the saint.
Not good, said the lad,
There's one yet to forgive
for the furor of life,
and he's
the one
who looks back
in the mirror.

Beautiful things; precious moments...

I've been back in Durban almost a fortnight, counting the beauty, the days of good and wondrous encounters, the love of life and the blessing of being around my maternal grandmother. I bask in the sunlight of her spirit. Sitting in her presence is a quenching for my soul. I drink on, satiated.

And then I drink more of her loveliness.

There's a varied peace in this...

I measure my life in milestones. Not timelines, but in connectivity with loved ones, proximity to them. Haji'ani Ma, my maternal grandmother, is my measure for all these things.

I have noted various stages along her life path. A strong and resolute woman, but also a fragile and lovely being. She brought up her two daughters after being widowed at the age of 39. And I was born before her 50th birthday; to her eldest daughter, her first grandchild.

The cream over her milk, as she likes to say of us grandchildren.

She will be 82 this week.

Holding her delicate body in my arms, feels like I'm hugging a dream.

I already know that a part of her is looking onward to higher places.

And a part of her remains here, with us. Counting our successes, sharing our smiles. A haze of the fantastical forever lingers. Reality beeps to the beat of our hearts. Mortality of the body overshadows immortality of spirit, being, a lifetime of dreams realised, hopes dashed, joys shared, loss made visible.

Instead of counting the days, I want to celebrate the precious moments. One at a time.

You cannot read 'Loss'

A striking quote from the movie: Memoirs of a Geisha...


~ At the temple, there is a poem called "Loss", carved into the stone. It has three words, but the poet has scratched them out. You cannot read "Loss"... Only feel it.~ Narrator.

adoration

I am not sure that we decide on 'objects' of adoration. Sure, there are always ways of being attracted to someone or forging close bonds and friendships that give you a sense of profound warmth, belonging and kinship. But adoration is a word that washes over me like a torrent of graceful summer rains; drenching and soothing and cleansing all at the same time. Adoration. How can you not love a word like that? :)

If you are not much of a wordlover as I am wont to be possessed by such a hobby as wordloving, then reflect on this at least: you will adore something or someone at least once in your life. You will love, yes. You will desire and yearn for and dream of and remember. But especially, you will adore, if only once in your life.

And that adoration will form the basis for almost all forms of reference. It will tell you about the object of your adoration. But it will thrill you to know that you have filled your being with the sweetness of having adored, and been engulfed for a time in adoring another. The great likelihood is that you will have been adored.

How lovely!

And you will carry with you that label of adoration; an unequivocal card of identity that will add to your resume of life a small sense of accomplishment, and even a reasonable explanation as to why the perfect heart that you were born with, might actually look a little tattered (and somewhat torn?). Just like an old book that has been read a few too many times; but is loved more now, in it's almost pitiable state, than it was when it first gleamed proudly atop a bookseller's shelf.

Aah, to adore and be adored is precisely what being alive is all about! And then to refer to it in fairytale form everytime the mind insists that such things are tricks of the fantasy writer's realm. The soul remembers. And the heart knows. Adoration is.

overwhelming evidence

There is ample evidence of beauty in this world.

I see it in the face of my two year old niece, Madeeha. Madeeha's name means 'praiseworthy', and I am most certain that the starting point of beauty is to be found in innocence. We look to find evidence of an obvious aesthetic presence, but Beauty also exists as a glaze over our vision; a tool of choice that allows us to scan the world with an eye for appreciating all that it has to offer.

People are beautiful in their attempts to glorify themselves; physically, spiritually, and often grandiosely. And some are beautiful in the inescapable sadness that they are shrouded in. Some choose silence as a companion and in that is a surreal beauty if not an obvious one. Beauty can be haunting and erudite or it can be impassioned and glaring; often all at the same time, for there is nothing that encapsulates the human experience more finitely than the multitude of emotions and experiences that occur as a pot of melting, blending colours all at the same time.

Its been a while since I wrote in a way that almost reads like cryptology.
This is not cryptic, only reflective. Nor is it an overdose of sugar, only part of many new thoughts being realised. There is beauty in good, and a strange beauty in the not so good. Acts of humanity are acts of admirable beauty. Crafts. Murder, too is a craft. And craft is beautiful in many ways. But then is evil beautiful as well? Or is it that any act of the human being is purely beautiful?

It may begin at innocence... but where does it stop? Or does it?

enthusiasm

Sometimes enthusiasm scatters,

stumbles

then seeps its last few drops into the
drains of doubt.

And sometimes it rises,

up and away towards the

place where fingers of sunshine

tickle it

out of its silliness.

And other times it even

ventures towards the

great wide oceanic

depth of love

and is

refreshed

that way.

And it lives!

...the beauty of this world

a fresh breeze tints my skin,

my baby eyes open

to the length of her cupboard door,

fingers reach for an ancient lock, dangling there

i pry them open, this place of old and new, new and old.

-the scent of musk invades the room-

silks and wools line the hanging spaces,

more textures in the drawers,

my hands float;

senses still arrested by the warmth of oils and musk and rose

and her. my beginning. my first pair of eyes.

my taste of real and The Real.

my reason for awakening. my view to beauty in this world.

---

many happy returns to the most beautiful woman in the universe

may you have days of scented rose

and nights of comfort, only. to my dear grandmother.

here's wishing you a grand 81, with Allah's fragrant blessings...

happy birthday!

finding rest

“Of His signs is this: that He created for you spouses that you might find rest in them, and He ordained between you love and mercy.” (Quran, 30:21)


Just in case I was wont to imagine for a second that life is filled with rampant coincidences, I was once again reminded of the opposite this weekend. On the front page of my new novel occurs the above verse from the Quran. I love this verse for the simple promise that is revealed in a few words. And on my way to M's nikkah ceremony on Friday, I decided to post this up, in commemoration. I love it even more so after having heard the guest speaker, Hafez AB Mohammed, also an Advocate of both the SA High Court and the Dubai International Court, who quoted the same in his speech on Saturday night with a more than eloquent commentary and discussion on what 'sukoon' really entails.

'...that you might find rest in them...'

I wonder what that means for the many whose lips or eyes might glance over briefly or recite more fervently at some point. As a precursor to my book, it serves only to remind that a spouse might be the reason for life's irritations to be overlooked. That love might indeed be a worthy conqueror. (Especially in the context of an abusive marriage as is the case with my protagonist). But rest, in the speakers terms also meant a commitment to forever-ness. An oath and an allegiance to that partnership in all respects, with every part of a person's being. I think that thats the most beautiful word in the verse. And rightfully appearing before love and mercy... in fact a necessary pre-requisite to it.

A loyalty to self and extension of self. A state of being. A place. A rest.

on sheep and sleep

Of course I know that He has this Plan

and so I wade through the thick of it all

even in that moment of

an unavoidable sense of de ja vu

But then there's moments when I think

Let this be just a little different;

You know...

Seeing as it looks like

all my prayers

are being answered in one divine sweep!

Just a hint of something different;

a deviation from that pattern that drives me bonkers, almost!

And then it strikes:

that element of over-thinking things.

Aargh!

And in one Whoosh!

its all a chaotic

sludge of something

a bit dramatic.

Drama is good.

But not if you're trying

to get some

sleep.

As it is I rarely

sleep

on flight.

Sigh. So there's some catching up to do.

Hmm...

Maybe I should be doing grander things,

like counting sheep.

Backwards!

deep down i know

Dear Diary...

Life is strange. So very strange. I am sitting with a box of smarties and I don't know what to do with it. Everything's smooth sailing with good views and no sea-sickness. If I want to touch the sky, it steps down on one knee and gives me a hand, asking me to dance. If I want to plant roses, the seeds are scattered on the wind. And if I want to feel the wind in my hair, tree's cradle boughs into make-shift swings these days.

Hallucination or not, it's a truly blessed space to be in.

I still don't really know what to do. But I also have a feeling that that's just a conscious and superficial unknown. Deep down, I think I got it all figured out. I have just got to wait till it surfaces. That's all. :)

look at the fisherman...

"You're a fish in the trap of the body;
look at the fisherman, don't look at the net.
Gaze in wonder at the infinite rose garden,
don't consider that thorn that wounded your foot.
Contemplate the Bird of Heaven whose shadow shelters you,
don't look at the crow that escaped your hands.
Put your trust in Him who gives life and ecstacy;
don't mourn what doesn't exist, cling to what does."

JELALUDDIN RUMI

an invitation to do things differently

I am not so sure that there is a space for elation and sadness to sit side by side and enjoy each others company. But then the law's of everything known to me have defied me many times before... so why would this time be any different, right? I'm not averse to the idea that I may be a walking realm of contradictions; my life tends to present all the data I need to confirm that, in fact. And its most easily explained as the compulsive artists greatest truth: a strength and a weakness, in and of itself a paradox. But it helps to also sit back and appreciate the little details of an almost normal existence; petty it may seem, but thorough and grounded in its own way.

I am still deciding, but the way I see it... Certainty might be a judgment of the mind; riddled as it chooses to be... or an easy battleground upon which the demons of past and present might play their sordid game. But even in my not-so-sureness state of semi-denial, I can tell that the space exists- delight and melancholy sit on a swing, holding hands and pretending not to giggle at my confused expression. Is it possible, I wonder... or an illusion of sorts... to be part of the creation of something beautiful and then murder it in cold blood, with those same warm hands?

What bare hands can slash an inspired canvas... when the invitation is to celebrate all the love and enthusiasm that life has to offer... Makes you think, doesn't it?

'bliss and blood'

"How did my hearts rose

become this astounding red?

Through being washed again and again

in waves of bliss and blood."

R U M I

The End...

Some of the most imaginative stories are begun with the words "Once Upon a Time".

Even Coelho's 'Eleven Minutes' does this. But then, the idea of beginning at the begin, is a nominal and conventional route as far as story-telling goes.

I like the idea of beginning at the end. It has that something in it that suggests we (at least a part) are permanently frozen in our every moment; that everyone moment of NOW has a nostalgic before and an inevitable after.

I have written a goodbye post to every year since I began blogging in 2005. Each time I said goodbye to a year of things and happenings; sometimes gladly, mostly reluctant... but then I never bid farewell to the memories or feelings or lessons. And mostly, I never ever said goodbye to the experiences that indulged my craving for wholeness. These were my highlights; my essential milestones... They were the products of my often limited supply of enthusiasm. And this limitation had to be pointed out to me; for a long time I deluded myself into believing that enthusiasm existed in endless supply. Then I heard not. It was like discovering that Santa doesn't exist. Or worse still, the Tooth Fairy! Imagine that?!

They happen every single year, of course. These milestones of discovery. And they're not always easy to acknowledge or recognise. Oh, but they sure do take place. Angels in disguise tend to present them in the most creative ways. Those same angels in disguise both force and entice the inner demons out on a scant spring-cleaning effort. And they tease the inner angels too, encouraging a romance of sorts between them for a time.

It's the End again. Candles have melted, and taps have run dry. There's no more squeezing that toothpaste tube. 2008 is done; save for a few pernicious scraps of dark poetry scribbled across the draft of that thing called a novel, and other's published here and there and elsewhere, it was another eventful and evolutionary year. That I can say, without so much as a drop of doubt.

A year ago, I yearned for newness. I got it in torrents. The storm replenished me, insatiated me... and then washed me ashore to yet another beach of newness. This ebb and flow is what life is all about. At least that what it is to me... part of that tidal wave of evolutionary relationships, personal growth and discovery... and a longer list of reasons to feel an overwhelming gratitude for riding the crest of the wave every so often, after a time of drowning in the confusion of the greater depths of salty water.

The ebb and flow... the circularity of reason... the evolution of life and being...
And the thrilling realisation that ends are really beginnings...

Here's wishing everyone a gregarious and enthusiastic new year 2009!


With love and appreciation

Shafinaaz

The free-est thing: Eleven Minutes: p96

I forgot to mention in the previous post, that the story of Maria in Eleven Minutes, is also biographical. Paulo Coelho met her in Geneva, through his agent. here is another profound extract from Maria's diary:

"If I were to tell someone about my life today, I could do it in a way that would make them think me a brave, happy, independent woman. Rubbish: I am not even allowed to mention the only word that is more important than the eleven minutes - love.
All my life, I thought of love as some kind of voluntary enslavement. Well, that's a lie: freedom only exists when love is present. The person who gives himself or herself wholly, the person who feels freest, is the person who loves most wholeheartedly.
And the person who loves wholeheartedly feels free.
That is why, regardless of what I might experience, do or learn, nothing makes sense.
I hope this time passes quickly, so that I can resume my search for myself - in the form of a man who understands me and does not make me suffer.
But what am I saying? In love, no one can harm anyone else; we are each of us responsible for our own feelings and cannot blame someone else for what we feel.
It hurt when I lost each of the various men I fell in love with. Now, though, I am convinced that no one loses anyone, because no one owns anyone.
That is the true experience of freedom: having the most important thing in the world without owning it."

Hmm.

in my cd shuttle...

"Dhard mein, bhi yeh labbh
muskhura jaate hein...

beethein lamhein hamein
jabh bhi yaad aateh hein..."

I love that song! And I have it in three mixes. Thank heaven for little brother with his rotating CD collection.