Birthday in Bruges

Dear Beloveds,
I have packed myself off to Bruges - un petit birthday present to myself; since the last infusion I have been feeling rather blah, a stagnant river out of sorts with the current. So naturally I chose a land of chocolates, quaint cobbled streets, the Venice of the North... and accompanied by the lovely Angelina, I am having a memorable time. We are staying in a Gothic hotel perched on the edge of a canal... wish me luck so I don't fall in :)

(all photos courtesy A. Edward)

Where The Wild Things Are

Carol: "Hey, weird little thing, I like the way you destroy stuff. Good technique."

Max: "Uh... thanks."

Bull: "Hey! What are you doing?"

Max: "I...I... I'm just helping."

Bull: "By smashing our houses?"

Max: "These are your houses?"

Bull: "Look, we worked very hard on these. Then you, sir, showed up and started 'helping'..."

- from the screenplay of Where The Wild Things Are, 2009

I attended a poetry workshop in London a few days ago; my first, and very interesting it was too. I learned that my poems can stand up and speak for themselves despite some critique. I had a sense that the poet who ran the workshop dismissed me slightly because I was younger than most of the poets present, but she suggested helpfully that I would 'mature in time' :) She also critiqued one of my poems 'Something Beautiful' for being too reminiscent of 'Warming her Pearls', a poem by Carol Ann Duffy. The other poets disagreed vehemently; and since I hadn't even read that particular poem, all I felt was chuffed to have brought the Poet Laureate to her mind!! One of the poets at the workshop, Jane Clarke, is an Irish poetess making wonderful ripples in the poetry world. I am very much looking forward to her debut collection.

From that quiet haunt of white rose petals and cups of tea, into the wild rumpus of London's boroughs being burned and looted by a haphazard mob of 'yoof'. Simple to understand their greedy hungry acts, and simultaneously depressing to compare the reality of the revolutions occuring elsewhere, where young people really do have something to say. And yet despite there being no relation, one furniture store tenderly built, destroyed in a single act of arson, invariably sparks off memories of other buildings burning, other mobs, other riots. One group of people alienating themselves from the Other. Which made me think of 'Where the Wild Things Are', and how anger can be tranformed by the imagination, and even softened by wilfully experiencing and understanding the lives of Others.

The looters did not loot the bookstores. They left alone the stories, the wealth of creativity and the imagination, the poetry, the plays, the life of the mind.

The Colour of Utøya

After the storm
and the gunmetal grey
clouds
burst into flame

seagull wings carve
into a desert floor

the colour of Utøya
fading so fast
my heart drops low.

I cannot keep up.

© Shaista Tayabali, 2011

Almost two weeks since Norway lost many of her beloved citizens. At Ivar Flaten's blog in Drammen, my childhood friend Arzanne de Vitre Vesthaug, who witnessed the reason for our flight from Bombay in 1993, has written a powerful piece on the Contemplation of Peace amidst decades of experiencing terrorism, directly and indirectly. She writes, of her piece,

Ever since the first attacks in 1993, I have dwelled on a latent fear I sometimes feel strongly, and at other times forget easily. With each new episode of terror or violence between groups, I am always equally astounded by how politics and religion, (which essentially teaches the same human values independent of who or what one believes in), can be the cause of so much hatred and misunderstanding. I cannot fathom how it is possible, and this makes me vulnerable to great anxiousness. For years I have wanted to write of these feelings, but I have never had the words. I think it is the negative rhetoric around me that has stolen my voice – the language of revenge, hate, judgement. I find it interesting that this piece finally came to me here in Norway, 15 years later. I needed to hear words of comfort and love to be able to write this – and then my words flowed, not in a moment of fear or angst, but in a moment of peace.

You can read her words here.

Oases

We make our way
We make our way
down dusty roads
to oases

where green pastures
await our souls
and love reminds us
we have miles within

and love reminds us
we have miles within.


- Shaista, 2011
a travelling poem for Gordon Ramsundar, who crossed over from earth to sky, and left only love behind. And for my brother and sister, travelling back from famine and drought and the revolutionary spirits of Somalia and Cairo... home to oases of love.

Scintillating Scotoma (Firework in my Eyes)

Klimt's Fulfillment, 1909

Let me see
if I can make
poetry out of this
Let me see
if I can whisk
fear out of this

Scintillating Scotoma -
I like the way it fits
the visual fire,
the zig zagging
iridescent
shimmering quagmire
of this.

Hold still,
my whirling dervishes,
so I can count you,
             claim you,
             calm you
Hold still,
so I can draw you,
                   close

We aren't the first
to do this.

- Shaista, 2011

Remember I told you I was having a funny time with my eyes? Last evening, I had an MRI scan to check my brain wasn't harbouring anything illicit. Lying in the white tube with earmasks on, warned kindly by the radiographer that "It will be very noisy!" I thought about Amal. (I wrote her a poem last year called Crossing Borders). I realised that all children of Gaza and other war torn areas, who have shrapnel discovered by MRI scans, lie in just this tube, listening to just this machine gun fire exploding near their head. How doubly, horrifyingly scary for them.

Thinking about Gaza perhaps didn't exactly help, because post scan and dye injection, I had a bit of a turn, and it was all oxygen masks, canula in my vein, briskly wheeled off to A&E. But then... aha! The emergency doctor on call lit up when he discovered he could write POET in his notes, as he had, of late, been craving poetry. Naturally I recited a couple of poems (the one about my mother holding the steering wheel, and the one about the team of medical 'ologists haunting me - he liked that!), and then, as a treat, the doctor responded by letting me see the mind bending technology of my MRI images. I look a weird little alien in X ray language!! Think I'll stick to poetry :)

A Bird Called Exceeding Joy Rang My Doorbell

On the way home from hospital, Mum says casually, "We had guests. But you'll never guess who." Unsurprisingly, I couldn't guess, seeing as I had never met them before, and neither had my parents. A parcel intended for me, had found its way to another village. The lady of the house had signed for it, without looking at the name, since she had been expecting a parcel from her son. When she finally noticed 'Tayabali', she felt dreadful, and hustling her husband into the car, drove straight over. (I was hooked up to the IV, meanwhile, unaware of all of this). "Anyway," continues my mother, clearly enjoying herself, "they brought a parcel... a large parcel!" I hurtled into the house, and flew about the rooms, one by one, until my mother, feeling sorry for me, led me upstairs. There, on the doorstep of my (very untidy!) room....

For those of you who have been following my blog since its inception, you will know of my dear friend, the artist, Jeanne-ming Brantingham, who creates art on Wu Fung Road... We have never met, and I rang her for the first time while ripping into her gift. Here is the inscription on the back of the canvas...

LYRICS TO FLY BY
No one knew that Miss T'ang wrote poetry deep into the night except for her close neighbor Mrs Hao, who could hear the faintest musical murmur drifting to her open window. She would stand straining to hear the beautifully crafted phrases and her heart soared each and every time she heard her young neighbor reading her poetry aloud to herself.
Frequently Hao Tai Tai stole across the alley bearing a pot of Jasmine tea. "Dear friend," she would whisper as she let herself in to T'ang Shiao Jye's study, "would you mind to read me that last poem again; the one about flying free?"

You can call me T'ang Shiao from now on, if you like :) Exceeding Joy is the name of the little bird popping excitedly out of his cage, to join us in a pot of Jasmine tea... I cannot believe I have my very own Jeanne-ming Brantingham painting... Now to find the perfect spot!

L'ESPRIT

(Am heading into hospital again this morning for the second round of Rituximab. The sun is shining shyly, with no hint of what the day may bring. I am scoffing porridge and posting this poem, which I read aloud on radio... my fellow guest responded very hearteningly to it - by shedding tears! Thankyou for 'feeling' the poem Laurence!)

The hours are greater now,
they reach past four and five and six.
The loss is greater now
I've tasted each sweet kiss
of faith, of peace,
of truth, of bliss,
and seen through all the dreary mists
of teams of all the 'ologists.

Radio and Cardio,
Neuro and Nephro,
the Opthalmols
and the Rheumatols,
the Oncols
and the On Calls

and just for larks, the Dentists,
the Pharmacists, the Specialists,

and still I insist
upon the breaking of the dawn,
this Warrior, this poet,
this Shaista must exist.

- 2011

The Ministry of Magic

I did. I read every one of the Harry Potter adventures. I cried and laughed, and did every thing you are supposed to do when you believe. Faith, when it is being written by a skilled author, requires only that you keep reading.
Perhaps it is exactly that simple with life.

In the summer of 2008, J.K. Rowling gave a commencement address for Harvard's graduates, in which she revealed the real secret to success: her speech was entitled 'The Fringe Benefits of Failure'. It is not just her books, but the author herself, who inspires faith.

Recently I learnt of two people who, for various reasons, came to a point in their life when they could no longer read fiction. They just could not believe in the story. The made-upness of it all. And, lately, the same shadow has been casting its grouchy little net over me. I cannot remember the last story I read, all the way through, with belief. The news is too real. The ready streaming tweets and updates and instant global imagery is a too powerful reminder of our extraordinary desire for awareness and our equal helplessness.

I want to know the truth, the true state of things. And I want magic, equally. I want an elder wand for invincibility, an invisibility cloak for crossing borders safely and a healing stone of resurrection from pain and suffering.

Then again, maybe I have them all. Maybe this life of mine is magic, just as it is. We come to our own rescue, don't we? Onwards, Shaista Potter!!

friendship...where magic really begins...

Money Talks

Money drives by,
it never hitches a ride

Money suns itself
under an umbrella

Money counts
but never sees
an avenue of trees

Money buys
but is never pleased.


- Shaista, 2000

participating in One Shot Wednesday

images from http://weheartit.com

A Lullaby for Theresa

Lullaby, and good night,
My darling delight

Bright angels stand around
My darling shall sleep

They shall keep
thee from harm
Thou shalt wake in
my arms

So lullaby, and good night
My darling delight.


My mother used to sing this lullaby to us when we were little. It is sung to the tune of Brahms' Lullaby, but I think Ma made up her own words ;) I was trying to teach Theresa the words while she was here, but I realise now that there aren't any particular words... just a mother's prerogative to lull her baby to sleep. And a baby's prerogative to hear what she likes... I always thought Mum was singing, "Thou shalt twake in my arms"... but my mother vehemently denies this; 'There's no such thing as Twake!" she says now...
Do you remember a lullaby from your childhood? Go on, hum it... I'm listening, and so is Theresa :)