NOVENA

I am remembering 
Magic
from different times;
Chiefs with golden crowns,
Deities, raising fire,
Bejewelled headdress
of wrought turquoise
and rose petals
to guide the way - 


I am seeing love
in all its forms
Waiting,
Listening,
for the footsteps 
of my protectors.  

A few days ago,  among my Irish friends on twitter, a novena was begun. The name of the prayerful mammy is Fiona Martin - and the name of the Saint watching over me is Saint Teresa, the Little Flower, Saint of the Little Ways, my favourite Saint! I pocketed a handful of rose petals before the surgery, and clutched them through it. My surgeon, who just happens to be Irish too, and also bears the surname of Martin, had no problems at all with the novena petals accompanying him as he needled away. At the end of it all, he said I did beautifully... but really it was him that did beautifully. He is the kindest and best of surgeons and I hope he is smiling when he reads this! Home again beloveds, thank you so much for the magical connections. For the silver heart charm bracelet sent by Marian Keyes, and the ease with which fear can be utterly displaced by love.

image from Le Petit Prince, words by Antoine de Saint-Exupery, "It is only with the heart that one can see rightly. What is essential is invisible to the eye."

BENEDICTION OF A HORSE

When I was a little girl, I went riding, on holiday, with my brothers. We each had our 'own' horse - mine was a gentle beauty called Shani (of course I instantly felt a connection, same first syllable!). She was perfect.

Until the day she bolted. A cow lowed deep and something about the sound spooked Shani and off she pelted for what felt like miles; I held on for dear life until, eventually, the others caught up with us... I hope you don't think I am a wimp, but I have never been back on a horse since. The opportunity hasn't arisen anyway, we moved from India soon after, but I have a fear of spooking horses now. And, yes, I suppose, a fear of horses.

A few days ago, part of my extended family visited from Vancouver to celebrate my cousin Tushna's 21st birthday - after a cake orgy, Tushna and I went for a walk along the bridges of Little Shelford. We stopped at the fence and watched two horses for a while. The younger one, brown and perky, nuzzled the chocolate Easter egg out of my hand and proceeded to play football with it until it was smeared utterly into the ground. Job done, he waltzed off. Then arrived the older white beauty. A memory of Shani stirred. She was soft as velvet, huge dark eyes, and a peculiar lump over her eye. A tumour? Emboldened by fellow suffering, I held the long sloping face in my two hands and rested my forehead against hers. I talked of this and that. I apologised for my fear. And I asked for her good wishes for Monday when I shall be trolleyed into hospital for eye surgery. My Molteno tube implant is going to be needled because the pressure in my eye has been building. Is painful, dear readers. Am almost looking forward to the ease I hope the operation will bring.

All this week, another joy has also thrilled through me, and through so many others - the moment when Daw Aung San Suu Kyi finally received, in person, her Nobel Peace Prize of 1991. She is being honoured with awards and honorary degrees across Europe, and in every piece of footage, it seems to me, her feet barely touch the earth. Graceful and contained though Daw Suu has been in exile, it seems to me, given half a chance, she would run, she would fly. At every opportunity, she skips to the waiting crowds, momentarily breaking sombre lines, to accept a flower, a hug, tearful gratitude.

To see you free,

To see you free,

Aung San Suu Kyi,

Aung San Suu Kyi.

↵ Use original player

Aung San Suu Kyi returns to her 'beloved' Oxford

By telegraphtv

YouTube

• 360p
• 240p FLV

← Replay

X

i

EATING MARIAN KEYES' GUINNESS CAKE WITH CLIVE JAMES

The day before I shlepped back into hospital for my second round of monoclonals, I decided to bake a cake. Marian Keyes' brand new copy of Saved By Cake needed breaking in. I studied each recipe during the Jubilee weekend and finally decided on the most interesting and unconventional recipe - a combination of Guinness and molasses! Couldn't wait!

There's cinnamon, nutmeg, mace, brown sugar, butter, flour, eggs and some kind of magic because it turned out beautifully. I've almost always baked carrot cakes and Father's personal favourite is a good sponge cake (safe! safe!) so the parents were slightly taken aback by the flavours - but on the eve of a visit to the needles I can't bear to play it safe.

Armed with slices of cake, grapes for balance and a good book (Marian's recent gift), I settled into the armchair for a long infusion. Midway, I sent a jokey tweet to friends with a picture of my needled hand and thought nothing of it, until it appeared as tbough the man in the chair diagonally opposite was staring at me. Did he think I'd taken the photo of him? Slightly unnerved, I thought it was my eyes - maybe he was asleep and, perhaps, locked in that position? But then the tea lady came round and he asked, "D'ye have anymore of those nice buscits?" and something about that Australian accent stirred some kind of memory. I couldn't be sure. An infusion bay! Surely not. I decided to chance a meeting. Everyone else was asleep or lost in thought, so I wheeled my drip over and offered Guinness cake to accompany our cups of tea.

'Twas Clive James! He partook of the cake after I assured him it was a Marian Keyes cake, hence the alcohol content was nothing to be alarmed by; we talked of poetry and fame, form and metre, and the dispensing of both when snubbing imperialism; his long years of being a critic and the short tiring months of being ill. He has leukaemia but was being treated with my favourite drug of choice - Intravenous Immunoglobulins - so feel sure he is in the best of hands. He advised me to look him up, since I seemed to have no knowledge of his many books of poetry. Did you know Clive James was a poet? He was reading a selection of Robert Frost to pass the time...

His infusion ended hours before mine, and after we wished each other well, and he toddled off, a young woman came up to me and told me her husband had just left her because she has stage 4 nephritis and lupus has burned off her face and hair. I assured her she looked beautiful in her paisley headscarf. Shining eyes, gentle soul. Such is life in hospital mes amies... painfully tragic despite the cake and celebrities.

And yet, oh thank goodness, for cake and celebrities :)

http://www.mariankeyes.com/Home
http://www.clivejames.com/

ALL THE QUEEN'S HORSES (AND ALL THE QUEEN'S MEN)

The street parties continue unabated up and down the country, and the Mall is flooded with the sea of Her Majesty's men and women and children, satisfied with the merest glimpse of the carriage, and the historical figure within.

As War Horse saluted the Queen and her family on Sunday, rain bucketed down on the Thames and Prince Philip has been taken ill with the chill of six hours of regimented standing. But the smile on his face through those hours as a thousand boats sailed past!

On an earlier occasion, 550 horses from across the Commonwealth danced and trilled their way into the watching Queen's heart, all in perfect symmetry from Chile to Oman except for one set of performers... the white beauties of Jean Francois Pignon, horse whisperer of France, who possessed a freedom and magic all their own. The Queen's love of horses is legendary, second only to her love of dogs,

and of course the other love of her life that has matched decade for decade, a consort who pledged and held his allegiance to a woman, his true love...

And one other love affair - that of a son for his mother - there is something so endearing about Prince Charles - he held the audience of 100,000 lightly, in the palm of his hand, as he urged a loud cheer for his father... "If you cheer loud enough, maybe he will hear you from his room in hospital and get better"...

And finally, the tribute song penned by Gary Barlow and Andrew Lloyd Webber... made memorable by the sweetest of soloists... why do the English pretend to mutter about royalty? They love it!!

↵ Use original player

Sing - Gary Barlow & The Commonwealth Band featuring Military Wives

By militarywiveschoir

YouTube

• 1080p
• 720p
• 360p
• 240p FLV

← Replay

X

i

MOSS AND MEMORIAL

These few things I take with me
A covering of moss,
The colour of lime,
And three forget me nots.

They felled trees the other day
To make the space seem wider,
And now the robins fly low,
Braver, braver.

The scent of nettles, sharp,
softened only by dandelions;
We let the grass grow wild
Beneath the bark and birch
and last remaining horse-chestnut.

A man lived here,
Forty years, a life -
No wife, no child, no pet;
Just a library of books
And every letter kept.

Dearest Uncle, your niece here,
I blew a dandelion free -
Nothing to wish for;
You were loved
And you loved, fully.

© Shaista Tayabali, 2012
for Uncle Motu
and the dverse poets

IT ARRIVED!!

A package arrived today with the hottest sunshine of the year... from Eire...

The brightest day of the year completely obscured the inscription I was trying to show off!!

MARIAN KEYES MARIAN KEYES MARIAN KEYES!!!!
So there I was, on twitter, recommending 'The Princess Bride' to Marian Keyes, best-selling Irish author of fabulous books, when she replies saying she's never seen it. I offered to send it of course, but privacy and all that... anyway, there was a silence for a while. A couple of weeks later, Marian Keyes goes on a hunt for me - me!! - to find the Lupusgirl who recommended the lovely film. And then I was found. And Marian asked how I was, and I said I was off into hospital and she said, "Can I do anything? Anything at all? Signed copy of a book?" And I says, "Oooh yes, please!" Shameless, I know. But this may NEVER HAPPEN AGAIN!!!!

Isn't she lovely?? She manages to sprinkle gold dust over our lives from a house in Dublin. She loves chocolate and cake and high heels. She understands suffering. She values kindness above everything. Only the kindest of people could send a signed copy of a book just to wish me well. And not just any book - but, on her authority, her own personal favourite.... D'you remember when I wrote about not writing to Eva Ibbotson? I feel as though Marian has given me a chance to say thank you to a beloved author in the here and now, so I'll never be haunted by ingratitude again!
So just to be clear...

MARIAN, I LOVE YOU!!!!!

THANKYOUUUU!!!!!

June the first, a bright summer's evening, a Monday. I've been flying over the streets and houses of Dublin and now, finally, I'm here. I enter through the roof. Via a skylight I slide into a living room and right away I know it's a woman who lives here... 

(from 'The Brightest Star in the Sky')

HOME AGAIN, TO THE SUN!

Yesterday I scoffed chocolate cake and watched the sun play in the fields beyond the hospital grounds. I nosily asked questions of a young woman just starting out on the same treatment... her heart was beating at 120, her bp was dropping, hot flushing - I couldn't help myself - I marched over, trailing my infusion, and said, "Don't let them increase the rate!" "But I feel so guilty," said she, "it'll take ages at a slow rate!" "Hmmf," said I. "So what? I am always the last in here, because I insist they go slow." I looked beadily at her husband. "Does she need to rush back?" "No, no, no!" he cried, hastily, warned by the martial gleam in my eyes. "She can take as long as she likes!" "So," says I. "All settled then." When the nurse bustled over to change the rate again ("Shall we increase to 400?"), my new friend said, "I'd like you to leave the rate at 300, please."
I gave her a thumbs up and shimmied back to my chair. Who knew I could be so bossy??

Home again, mes amies, to the bright, hot, divinity of a summer's day. The morning after my first infusion is always perfect. I dragged my yoga mat out into the garden and did a single Surya Namaskar - any more and I might have found myself back on the wards, but a single salutation to the sun was my gratitude.

Later on today, when my lymph nodes gnarl and gnaw, when the fevers start and my heart kicks up an unruly beat, I shall remember the deliciousness of a single moment. I don't mind the pattern of sun and shade. I hold them both in the palm of my hand.

Father, who is baking his tootsies in the sun, has just bellowed for a coke float (vanilla ice-cream scoops in a glass of coke - it's an Indian thing)...

Ah... we sure know how to live it up, here in the Shires...

p.s. have just received comments on the coke float not being an Indian thing - a universal thing, in fact. I stand, happily, corrected. 

ON A PIECE OF GLASS IN OXFORD

Some months ago I wrote to a poet called Dorothy McCarthy - I had read one of her poems online and loved it. I wrote to tell her so... she, in turn, read mine and recommended me to a glassworks artist, who was looking for poetry to weave into her glass. A few weeks ago, Flora de Ospina exhibited these works in Oxford, and sold a piece with my words crafted in.

Imagine, somewhere in Oxford, my words on a stranger's wall..

Dorothy belongs to a poetry group in Oxford and asked me to come join them today in a poetry reading on the works of German artist Daniel Eltinger - but that was not possible - hospital early tomorrow morning for my first infusion of Rituximab.

Poetry on leaves, poetry in glass, whatever next? :)

THE RETREAT

At the foot of the birch,

rain gathers the breeze

and birds arrive to speak -

falling silent only when

the church bell

sounds her turn.

Summer seduced us yesterday,

but this morning

when we woke -

the blackbird sighed

and sang of rain

in mourning, lilting tones.

Close I get, and closer yet,

to the blackbird's orange beak;

He holds his ground,

the counsel stays -

I, flightless, retreat.

© Shaista Tayabali, 2012
for dverse poets

images from dakini's bliss   

and dave stewart album

On A Rainy Day in Shelford, I...

... took photographs like a tourist... of the Church and graveyard..

...of wisteria and honeysuckle clad thatched cottages..

...and then, in celebration of the Queen's Jubilee, I saw this..

Quite alarming... this isn't My Telephone Box, by the way... this belongs to the village before mine...

...but very imaginative, don't you think?? Note the little interview tacked on at the bottom...

...but then, and this is what I really wanted to share.... someone has chirpily celebrated the birthday of our (my) telephone box... I meant to get a photo as soon as I saw it but then, one thing and another... so the balloons look a little like Eeyore's balloons after Pooh and Piglet had at them... still... Happy Birthday to  imagination and unexpected gifts everywhere!