Happy Birthday Dr T!

Last year, on my father's birthday I wrote a post called The Cloths of Heaven. It began, 'On his birthday, my Father says his wishes have come true...', but knowing that he had always wanted five children, I wrote, 'one more marriage should do the trick'; never imagining that a year later, with one more marriage around the corner, my father is about to have his dream five children. (Dear Husband-to-be, you don't quite seem to be included in this accounting. Sorry about that.)

One son and future daughter, just walking the cheetahs, in Africa, you know how that goes...

One son and daughter, just, oh you know, hanging loose with your grandson...

And me, freshly B cell depleted from hospital, tag still on wrist, returned home to find my mother had (clearly) missed me so much she started a new portrait... it's very faint still, only two days old... but maybe now Dad, if you could just add the sixth child to your wishings and hopings, I might snag him with this work-in-progress! Although why do I have the sneaky suspicion that your birthday wish will involve a second grandchild instead?!!

Ah well. Happy Birthday Dr T! A happy birthday indeed.

Cheers!

Self in a Telephone Box

All around the country, the legendary red telephone boxes are dwindling out of use. In my own sparky little village, we have two - one of which contains a terrifying effigy of some sort.. not quite sure who he is supposed to represent. He scares me. Someone stuffed him in years ago and although he doesn't quite fit, he looks real enough...

The other telephone booth contains me! Well, sometimes. It is a sweet library, available to all. Take a book, put a book in its place, and write a post-it on the glass wall requesting anything particular... I asked for more audio books and lo and behold there they were a week later. It is all very mysterious and exciting enough for me :)

Am pootling off into hospital this morning for my next rounds of chemotherapy infusion - so I may stop by the red box on my way to Rituximab...

Toodle-oo! Wish me luck xx

photo credit: Elenice Tamashiro

3 Question View: A Second Interview

A few weeks ago I was asked by Yearning for Wonderland blogger, Anna Meade, if I should like to be interviewed about writing poetry... and since I had such a splendid time with Sherry for Poets United, I naturally said yes! Anna's is a new blog, so perhaps you could visit her - she included three of my poems and a chirpy photo of my Self Among the Geraniums; here is the truncated interview...

Anna:
I'm quite envious of your delicate touch with words. You conjure evocative imagery with just a stanza. What brought you to poetry as a way of expressing yourself? In your writing, how do you feel about the economy of poetry versus the expansiveness of prose?

Shaista:
The art of economy is a discipline I learned at university. Up until then, I had been a fairly indulgent prose and poetry writer. My composition of language was often deeply emotive, highly subjective and heavy with the influence of romance and Keatsian turns of phrase. Often, but not always. There has also been a trend in my writing, since childhood, towards describing a snapshot visual, and towards epiphany. I began university with the shadow of a complex illness already threatening to obscure me, so I was determined to excel.

This proved difficult for two reasons - I liked to answer questions in my own merry, meandering way, and I did not know how to edit myself. My Professor, Simon Featherstone, taught me this: "The line that you are most attached to, is the line that has to go!" In learning precision, I learned economy. And I think, perhaps, my poetry has begun to adapt to my rather fragile body. These quick brushstrokes of poems serve me well in and out of hospital.

Delicacy aside, though, sometimes I yearn to write a tome in the style of Tolstoy; an epic blockbuster of a novel packed with 108 Dickensian characters. Yearning is what we artists and writers do best!


Anna:
When you begin writing a poem, do you focus on an image? A phrase? A song? What inspires the act of picking up the pen?

Shaista:
A line comes to me. I focus on a few words, a phrase, that forms the first line of the poem-to-be. Blog posts require titles, which I often enjoy for their brevity, but my poems never used to have titles. Do poets think of titles first? When do the titles come? I prefer the idea of that first line being the clue to the poem. My inspiration as a poet is simultaneously influenced by the subtle and the obvious. Hospitals are waiting rooms filled with both.

Two artists who have influenced my work are my parents; they paint their lives in very different ways. Father's watercolours are mysterious, floating worlds, echoes of Turner and Monet, impressionistic; my Mother's work is magnified detail, bright, strong, clear - O'Keefe comes to mind. Father talks in riddles, Mother is incredibly literal - I flit between worlds in my life, and make sense of it all when I write.

Anna:
I love 'The Year of Yes'; it's deeply inspirational. It speaks of great positivity, despite the challenges you face with lupus. How has keeping your positive energy and happiness been instrumental to your life and your writing?

Shaista:
Have you read Victor E. Frankl's 'Man's Search for Meaning'? He says, "Happiness must happen, and the same holds for success: you have to let it happen by not caring about it." I marry this idea with the engaged Buddhism teachings of mindfulness, and try to achieve 'Happen-ness'. Living in the now, the here and now, is not easy with a sneaky systemic illness like Lupus. Lupus is an embodiment of many human fears: the What-Ifs and the If-Onlys. So the secret to happiness is being present for the happen-ness, the saying Yes! in gratitude for our ability as humans to be present.

My friend Dr. Ho tells me to embrace pain, particularly the physical manifestations of it, because feeling pain means you are alive! And he is right - physical pain does not exclude twinkling eyes, sparkly smiles and the playful impulse to tease and be teased. The act of writing is instant happen-ness for me. Just holding the pen, the feel of my book of poems, the moment of connection between the physical materials and my soul, my thoughts, my sight... yes! yes! yes! It is the best of me.

Imagery: Kitagawa Utamaro, Dr Tayabali, Perveen Tayabali

Optimism: A Story in Six Words

Young patient: one eyed. Flirting wildly.

Recently, Paulo Coelho challenged his blog readers to write a story in six words - uma historia em 6 palavras - in the spirit of Hemingway, who once wrote: 

'For sale: baby shoes. Never worn.'  

Hemingway called it his best work. Within 35 minutes of the challenge, Coelho had over 350 six word stories. I found it quite difficult! Do you?

But today, at the eye clinic, I saw a young man with his pretty beloved; he was clearly fresh from an accident or some other trauma, bursting with confidence and the ability to flirt passionately with his amour! It was sweet and real, and very inspiring. 

(There was another story - a patient so thrilled with his own existentialism and spiralling darkness of thought, that he found my smiles positively loathsome! And the more he thunder clouded, the more I radiated joie de vivre and bonhomie. Oh dear. Poor man. When I could not endure the rant any longer, I told him to read Thich Nhat Hanh and Victor E. Frankl and scuttled off.)

It was a long day, and I want to thank you for your lovely words of support, encouragement and advice. Optimism is the way - even if the sheep farmer from Hertfordshire may never agree...

Image: Madeleine Calaido Weber 'Flower in Love'

In Search of the Laughing Buddha

Some days,
when the spirit
of the laughing Buddha

is still,
the clouds gather ominously
and we shelter each other.

I am waiting
for light to pour through me.

I am always turning away
and towards prayer;
Will faith ever hold me
still?

One single terrifying moment
of divinity
is all;

The days are sand and sea
and we know nothing.

- Shaista Tayabali, 2011

I am having a funny old time with my eyes lately. I am meeting with my Ophthalmology Consultant in the morning. How do you cope with fear? (That is not a rhetorical question - I really do want to know!!) Does your faith hold you still? 

Painting:  The Protector, Elspeth Young

The Taste of Rain

Sleep eludes me
on nights as these -
Restless,
in a moon lit heat

And a longing for rain
that runs so deep -
My monsoon memories
taste bitter sweet.

Every Dog Has Its Day

The little baba is away in Portugal, so I have been a lonely soul, washed up on the shores of auntydom. I nearly posted a poem about being in love with his lit soul, but wasn't sure you could handle any more gooey shmaltz. So, instead, a post about dogs. I went to an art lecture today, tracing the incredibly diverse presence of dogs in art through the middle ages (depicted as healers of the plague, jousters, carved into marble tombs to accompany humans into afterlife), in heraldry, and on towards Reynolds, Hogarth, Gainsborough, Turner and Stubbs. Even Freud, Bacon and Warhol were flung in for good measure.

George Stubbs' White Poodle in a Punt (doesn't he look worried, poor little chap?) and Edwin Landseer's Dignity and Impudence melded beautifully with the more tortured Dawn After the Wreck by William Turner.

I listened to the speaker in awe, wishing I could be her! It must be wonderful to have an easy fluency with a certain subject, be historically accurate, and hold your audience captivated in the globe of your hand.

I learnt one interesting thing. I always thought dogs were associated with men, as faithful companions, but in fact, dogs are more usually portrayed with women, beside their tombs, to depict the fidelity and loyalty of women. Or in their arms, in family portraits, to assure the viewer of a stable and content home life. At weddings, they brought good fortune. My parents were married with Mum's dachshund Hansel, curled comfortably on their feet. Even when prodded, he would not budge. A sure sign of good things to come!

Landseer, Windsor Castle in Modern Times

Do You Know How To Draw Camels?

The most significant step you can take to turn your life around is to learn how to draw camels.

- Phil, and Clyde the Camel

Finally, after weeks of waiting and watching, the skies have opened, and the rain is tumbling down. Sitting on the ledge beside the conservatory, I let the rain soak in. Outside, the birch and cherry are dancing and carousing, like Rafael yesterday, little arms and legs busting moves to hip hop beats and lullabies alike... chuckling, gurgling, squirming in the happy wet of bath time.

This morning marked the passing of the last of my father's brothers. On such a day, to the sound of rain, grief melts quietly away. On such a day, with the sound of rain, words stumble on the page.

Like my father, Uncle Mustafa spent many years in Zanzibar, East Africa, and recalled in great detail, and with pleasure, the names of places for my brother's recent pilgrimage there. Marriage proposals aside, Rizwan's work in Africa continues apace. His ability to inspire, motivate and challenge fellow beings is evident in this blog called How To Draw Camels, the premise of which is to teach the world how to draw camels while showcasing and supporting social enterprises and entrepreneurs in West Africa. I am quite fascinated by this blog, not least because of the high regard the author holds my brother in :) Here is what he wrote:
Someone you should know: Rizwan Tayabali
It is because of him that this site exists. Not only did he provide motivation, he offered invaluable guidance in developing the site and the project. He did not ask for anything in return. Rizwan travels around the world offering pro bono consulting to social enterprises. It is stunning how much ground he has covered. Most recently, he has been in Southern Africa. Before that, it was Southeast Asia. I encourage you to check out his work and spread his vision. He has been incredibly inspiring to me personally and I think a lot of people would benefit from seeing how he spends his days.

Well. Oh well, if someone writes such glowing words about my brother...!! In Bamako, Mali, a trickle of water emerges into basins which are dry by afternoon. So much rain bucketing down around me, while women walk miles, pumps are needed, new water solutions... you all know this story. So let's learn how to draw camels together! Let's buy an organic Bactrian Camel T-shirt! Watching my younger brother and sister teach little Rafi how to do everything while learning so much about trust and faith and practical parenting solutions themselves, I really understand the simple creativity of this idea. You may start with just a squiggle, a tadpole of a face that looks nothing like anything recognisable, or with this:

and, then, with a little bit of practice, move niftily on to this...

Or from this (who looks more anxious? Grandfather or grandson?):

to this :)

The Names of Things

Taking Off Emily Dickinson's Clothes
gazes out at me
behind the window frame
Half content to be
in Billy Collins' world,
half wishing to be me -
Cross legged in the evening sun
drinking rose petal tea.

I can name the Yellow Rose,
the frilly Poppy, the Bee
longing for that same tea;
the half-eaten bruised cherries,
the guzzling, drunken, blackbird feast.

Deep in the shadows
lazy snakes of ivy curl
and the wind is a Tempest again -

I walk among the unnamed things
the secret, hidden lives,
I pronounce the names of Latinate things
and trip on the words
and smile -

Cerastium tomentosum,
snow in summer,
Galium odoratum,
stars in spring,
Lavandula angustifolia...
where the herb garden sings.

- Shaista, 2011

Poem participating in One Shot Poetry Wednesday.
My first line references the poem 'Taking Off Emily Dickinson's Clothes', in the collection of poems by the same name. I do love the work of American Poet Laureate Billy Collins, and am so grateful to my American blogger poet friends for widening the horizons of my poetic readings. I read my poem aloud on radio today - with my brother Irfan present in the control room!

King Rafa

Waiting for the King
in rich embroidered cotton,
the sun begins to dim
to protect the royal skin;

the birds are humming
(just a quiet throaty thrill)
and wild roses fling
their perfect petal rings
to line the walkway in -

He is come!


- Shaista, 2011
Naturally the poem was done, when the King had come :) Later, when the Little Imperious Figure was ensconced in his temporary English kingdom, I learned that 'the King' is his universal nickname. At the moment though, he is, rather crossly, having to share the centre of the universe with his namesake, Rafael Nadal, the other Rafa... who looks as though he is about to be crowned again...

I have discovered I have a wealth of silly songs up my sleeve, mostly nonsense, that conversations do not require language necessarily, and that my brother and sister are the most charming parents in the world..

Biased? Moi??