For Kenya, and senseless murders

Tis blood that's shed to shake our souls,
This blood that's shed, is from my veins, my child, my mother, my sister, my friend,
Father shouts for us to go,
He takes the bullet, sheds more of us.
We're frozen, at first, and then we melt into rose red,
Seeping into the rivers of sorrow.
Africa beats her chest in pain,
She stomps her feet, anklets betraying her fury.
Our children have returned to the Earth.
Life has lost this round to the firing squad in a material world.
The whirlwind is tormented souls crying havoc.
Tears fall into ocean and are buried there, forgotten.
Until a new day for blood and sweat and maybe victory.

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.

intermittent sadness

intermittent sadness
overcomes me

like the soft soap suds from the washing trough,
clean and uninhibited,
but the detergent
sneaks through
nostrils
with a warning label:

'unfit for consumption'

intermittent sadness
overwhelms me
it is. and it is not.

little more can be said
in that space between
what is safe
and what is not.

intermittent it may be
but this sadness even frightens me.

this, that
something scattered
can be felt so deeply

while something untethered
can be made so devastatingly
tangible.

i ask again.
what is safe?
and what is not?

intermittent sadness follows at my heels now,
unattended,
lurking,
searching still,
between
the is
and the
is not.

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?

eternity dwarfs those...

Surrounded, by people and love and life,

Lifted by the lightness of simply being

And flung into the air by words and colours

that make me squeal in childlike delight,

I have much to be thankful for.


Then dunked into an ocean of despair

just by finding out that darkness exists!

That it is the gift that some will gladly bestow

on the brides of Naivete and meekness.

And that twisted in this vineyard of

black and white; dark and light -

this world of sobriety and intoxication -

are things that you and me in simple play

might fail to really grasp.


The finding makes me weak,

at these knees fit only for sitting

cushioned, on the little green mat

that points a sometimes wandering mind

to that place

where eternity dwarfs

those mountains in the mind,

those petty details of

black and white; dark and light.

And the silly borders

of sobriety and intoxication.

love, labour, lost

crime hurts in ways that we can no longer measure. all those stats that insist on the 'greatest crime capital' badges that make some people smile in pleasure at the accolade, are worth nothing compared to that extended realm of devastation. on thursday, a friend of mine left a sweet birthday message for me at facebook. sometime yesterday, mom told me that she had been kidnapped from her city of residence in Durban on the east coast, bundled into the back of a delivery vehicle and transported to Gauteng overnight, where they finally located her early yesterday. (-this all happened on thursday night-)

i need to remember to breathe at this point... it upsets me so much!

of course, i am glad that she has been found, and that she is ok. adding to the unfortunate incident is the fact that she is pregnant. but still, she is ok. physically ok. but i cannot begin to imagine the trauma. this whole thing should never have happened!!!

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?

dust off your hands... it will be done

2009

hello

what will you have?

a cup of tea? with lemon and ice?

or a bag of flour to bake your own cupcake, perhaps?

i have nothing to serve, you see...

you're an unlikely newness

raking the same glory from the days gone by

a bit too quickly for my liking, i say

and a bit too slow

if it counts that

there's a war crime or two

happening in some part up north

i don't know exactly where

just that

its not okay

because those babies i heard in my dream

weren't actually in combat

the lollypop that got splattered with blood

was just fresh out the wrapper

gosh

the baby was fresh out the wrapper!

but they said they were bombing

an area of armed combatants

(with lollypops - red ones!)


so what will it be?

a glass of ice water?

a dash of tequila?

on the rocks... and the rubble

underneath which

lies a mother and her two children

the third one is just

a

splattered

mush of flesh.

doesn't count.


it's just a matter of

ashes to ashes,

dust

and clay

to dust.

white phosphorous will make sure of it!

dust off your hands. it will be done.


happy new year.

we can wait for FIFA's act,

but the games have already begun.

Colaba under Curfew

In all my travels, one of the cities that has most wound its way into the sinews of my heart is Mumbai in India. I first travelled to India in 1994. Dad wanted to reminisce his journey with Mum back in '79, when he could afford to take her out of the country on vacation for the first time. They spent some three months roaming the length and breadth of the beautiful Bharat. In all my years, I have heard myriad stories of them traveling through the night, sleeping on trains and traversing the grand expanse of the land of their forefathers. We have been subjected to long hours of looking at literally hundreds of slides played on whichever of the walls of the house we happened to be living in was free of furniture or framing. These are accompanied by hours of commentary from dad, additions and or corrections by mum and the sound of Rafi Sahb or Kishore Da in the background just to make sure we captured the correct mood. My great-grandmother's were sisters. And so, back then, they went out to meet the only living third sister; they marveled at her tiny but incredibly clean living space and her wonderful charm and warmth. And so, fifteen years later, we were to make our first trip as a family, to recapture some of that ambience. What I knew about India was peppered with stories from Bollywood. I could sing-along to all of my parent's favourite tunes and quote from their epic oldies such as Mother India and Pakeezah. My first impression was implorable. The stench of the place, knocked us over in an all too eager greeting. The heat all but defeated us just as we got out of the aircraft. A taxi-walla carted us from the airport towards Colaba where we were meant to be staying. (Dad wanted to stay at the Natraj; this was before the Intercontinental revamp- Gladly shortlived by the rat parade). We had to stop for fuel at a petrol station. It was April. The sweltering heat played tricks with our vision; a steam seemed to rise out of the ground. And here and there, potholes were filled with murky water. All of this seemed relatively innocent. Stopped at the fueling place, I rolled down my window in a bid to give this place of many stories a chance to make its impression on my imaginative minds eye. I didn't have time to regret the decision or to make amends by closing the creaky glass. A swarm of mosquitoes quickly invaded the interior of the car. Air osmosis is such a thing! I was only learning about such things as a high school hopeful, not quite graduated from such institutions.
What did I want to do? Daddy, I want to go home! I squealed. Dear sweet dad was delighted at the entertainment. Welcome to India, everyone. Mum giggled. They exchanged smiles and glances. We rolled eyes.

But then we drove into the depths of this dark city. We saw the crumbling infrastructure and tasted the unflinching conviction of the people. We heard the cries of feisty streetchildren, some better entrepreneurs than New Yorks best. And we were humbled. We were hooked. I bet at that stage already, we were sworn devotees. Pilgrimage has become an affair of heart, mind and soul. Speaking of which, Haji Ali Dhargah and Mahim Dhargah are frequent visit sites. Each have a story to tell. But thats for another post.

Needless to say, I have been back to India almost a dozen times since. I have attended weddings filled with some seven thousand people. I have returned with armfuls of books and shoppers delights, memories and photographs of wonders shared and felt in this city of cities. I have walked its streets and rubbed shoulders with its vast populace. I have felt the seasoned Mumbaikar if only for a hopeful time. In this little love affair, I have ravaged the pages of Shantaram and Maximum City to quench my thirst for more about this pulsating place. I have danced in the scorching heat and brought back souvenir tans, and have been drenched in the monsoon rains numerous times. And I have loved every minute of it. A planned trip back there makes my heart skip a beat or two. I was due back there, save for a wave of attacks last night that has left a city of many heartbeats under a shocking curfew. Colaba never sleeps. Mumbai rocks on like the diva of energy that she is. Until now, that is. Colaba is under curfew. Schools didn't open today. Construction came to a standstill. People stayed indoors. A city grieved the communal death of the freedom to breathe in safety. Mortality stares us in the face, just one more time. Mumbai's heart has just skipped a very long beat. I never thought I'd see the day.

Just imagine if you were walking in Nelson Mandela Square in Sandton, or on the Durban beachfront, or at the V&A Waterfront in Cape Town or any of South Africa's city centres, and a range of grenades were spewed around you. Just imagine. What would happen? Violation is rife everyday, in every sphere of our lives. This sort of thing is that n-th dimension we don't want to think about. Rather relegate it to something that 'only happens in the movies'. BUT JUST WHAT IF??!!

misplaced intentions

these can get so twisted:
intentions, misplaced

like a set of keys;

leaving just a bitter
memory
of the ringing
sound
they made as they
dangled
from the wardens hands,

and a cold
memory
of the day i strode
barefoot
across the stone floor
of that
castle of promises.

bitter and cold;

this handful of
misplaced intentions
remind me just
of temporariness
and my own mortality.

just like that

i am feeling an overwhelming sadness tonight. and i dnt know what to do about it.
im typing these words. and feeling a sense of relief in seeing them on screen. pretending that this way, the sadness will dissolve. but its not.
i still dnt know what to do about it.

im drenched. i dnt think i can afford to lose more salt right now.
but its all not always easy to find answers to everything.

maybe sad is healthy. i dnt know.
i dnt know if anyone knows.
but i know that i dnt.

a gift called hope

I feel myself slipping.. losing that measure of control, a deluded measure, but a coping crutch nonetheless.. this current lesson in i dont kno what has eluded me, and 2007 will draw to a pathetic close with me left wondering what that was all about. A dear friend said to me that he had a dream about me crying. Made him feel sad, he said. I rejected the notion at the time. Hogwash, I thought. But I cried twice in my heart and once when it was too much to bear, came flooding out my eyes, just when I looked at the message on my cellular phone that said nothing that words could convey. So I cried. And now, with nothing left to hold on to and nowhere to reach in this desolate state, Im crying from the inside. But its funny how, in all this darkness, theres a tiny candle fighting for breathes in the depths of the suffocating, all-powerful black. This candle called hope. My reason to smile. My new years resolution. My wish. And my fear.

Its true. I havent been able to figure out this thing called love. And its appeared in oh-so-many guises, some flawed and precarious, others joy-filled and fleeting glimpses of heaven. Imagined, perhaps? Not certain. But beautiful and sad and flowing with sweet memories and mostly, all void of regret. At the very least, I can say this for myself: none to regret having been as they were and no regrets or what-ifs about what couldve been. Rather, life has been a journey of engaged surrender and trusting in the order of things, personal choice and looking onward to progressive growth and all good things, of course. So its been good. No dependencies, no death wishes :P
Just some lamenting words wrought by an emotion-wrecked muse and a mind often riddled with over-analysis. And then some. Gosh, I may have said this before and often enough.. and I say it again: So much happens in one little year; so much more than one might ever anticipate standing at the foot of the mountain to be chartered and climbed. And upon reaching the precipice, its kinda strange to take a peek back down the path, look back at the mini milestones and the pitfalls passed- makes for some rather dizzying realisations! Made me realise and affirm that many of the imaginations plans are naive and porous againts the Master BluePrint. Thankfully. And that luckypacket rings and creme soda are mortal and silly compared to gentle souls and free men of steely character who will undoubtedly make waves of difference to the world out there. Reality, and Perspective... is so much taken for granted until its a bucket of ice cold water in your face! Thats pretty much what 2007 has been for me. Tonnes of reflection, smilingly beautiful moments, and a wonderfilled anticipation of what 2008 might bring.. So. Here I am, standing patiently in line, carrying a pretty little gift called hope and a prayer for peace and protection for my beloved ones.

Through the Looking Glass

I feel like Alice..
looking through the looking glass..
I see you but do you see me?
You see you

I dont even see me
Just you

I feel like Alice..
inside this looking glass.. looking through this looking glass
looking out from my glassy box
shiny things and sunshiney bits
blinding me

seeing out to the great big world
seeing only you

not me

searching for you
and finding only me

inside the looking glass
trapped

alone
with me
myself
and
i

Different, no?

He asked me the question again tonight..
If I am fulfilled in my life..
And I thought no.
Same question as before, when I also thought no.
But it was a no from thinking
i should trudge on.
It was a no from reading rhetoric
where there should be none.
It was a no because i thought he wanted more for me
and it was a no to make me
more!
Same question
Same worded answer
Different me
Different reason
Different meaning
Different oh-so-very not the same
No. Because now I know.
Me. Fulfilled, is to be me, in me,
with me
as me.
Just me.