WINTER, SPRING AND SUMMER THINGS

In the middle of February, I walked through the village, taking a path I've travelled many times, but seeing the new. I think that might be one of my favourite things about life. Finding the seemingly new in the old or familiar. It was an unexpectedly sunny morning, and something shone silver on my left. It looked like a silver foil horse. I crossed the road, and discovered a horse I had never seen before in a field of snowdrops I had never noticed before.

 He was behind bars, which might account for it. He is the Hanover Horse…

I've no idea why he lives there or who planted him there, but this is his view for a few weeks in February…

Further on, I stopped to greet my precious friend Victoria, who just happened to be outside her front door on her way out to her sewing class. "Come quickly and see my snowdrops and daffodils!" she tempted, so I did…

And later, walking with Angelina and the twins, I looked up and saw this…

All that remained was something of summer, and the phone box provided me with that…

Is there anything more summery than cricket? Well, not for my father anyway…

And the last of the lovely things is this… my Masters dissertation, comb bound and handed in!

信仰 XÌNYÂNG (Faith) 相信 XIÃNGXÌN (Believe)

A faithful heart makes wishes come true

- Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon

Sometimes I feel very conscious of how my blog posts have dwindled. Other times I think it a perfectly natural conclusion to having recruited my energy towards my Masters. Mostly I spend the hours writing or trying to write or thinking about writing…

Or I am immovably exhausted by the wolf, able only to lie down somewhere, anywhere, and sleep… and read… and sleep…

Sometimes I find myself running, with gritted teeth and fierce determination towards something, my writing contained in a book, and a destination that I must get to, or else have failed my quest…

Sometimes I worry about bills (so many bills!) -

Lately, I find myself thinking incessantly of a cat or a dog… last night I dreamt a dog found me, and I fed him two bananas. One firm and ripe which he ecstatically enjoyed. The other was a pathetic over-ripe specimen, the last of the old bunch. The dog munched it, hacked it up and gave me a withering look. Really? And you want me to stay with you? 

Even the dog in my dream thinks me hopeless - but I feel I have lived dogless for too long. I don't think I could be cat lady, having zero experience with their snooty ways - I might be too intimidated - but a dog? Even a snooty dog? I feel I could be ready…
                                 No? You think I should start with a hedgehog first?

Images from Hayao Miyazaki's Whisper of the Heart

and Darcy the Flying Hedgehog from pinterest

GONG XI FA CAI AUNTIE SHAI

I love environment

I can see a bird flying free in the blue sky

After the rain that washed everything new

Environment gives us oxygen and carbon dioxide

Birds are talking to us. 

This is a little group poem written in cahoots with three children from a Delhi slum - the wonders of Skype! They form part of an organisation called ROPIO - Reach Out and Pass It On - which aims to build a self-sustaining, empowering environment for children.
Subjects covered: Cricket (I wanted to know if there was an all-women's cricket team - there is)
Poetry: the name of one of the girls was Kavita, which means 'poem' in Hindi, so naturally yours truly assigned the task of co-writing a poem. I also sent them one of mine - about autumn breathing outside my window… I could hear them reading it aloud to one another before they approved of it :)

It is Chinese New Year and although there are no festive dragons or fireworks here in Cambridge, my year began with Rafi's angel voice on my phone belting out 'Gong Xi Fa Cai Auntie Shaiii!!' which, as you can imagine, I have replayed several times. It is a feather sent from a thousand li away and it never fails to cheer me.

The old woman remembered a swan she had bought many years ago in Shanghai for a foolish sum. This bird, boasted the market vendor, was once a duck that stretched its neck in hopes of becoming a goose, and now look!- it is too beautiful to eat. Then the woman and the swan sailed across an ocean many thousands of li wide, stretching their necks towards America…but when she arrived in the new country, the immigration officials pulled her swan away from her, leaving the woman fluttering her arms and with only one swan feather for a memory… Now the woman was old. For a long time now the woman had wanted to give her daughter the single swan feather and tell her, "This feather may look worthless, but it comes from afar and carries with it all my good intentions." 
Thus begins The Joy Luck Club by Amy Tan. I think about the feathers I am carrying for my nephew and nieces - some will appear worthless, and some may be misunderstood, but I shall carry my heart in them, and with it, all my good intentions.

first image from Slum Children Who Want To Do More

second from Lorraine Nam - Neatorama

RETURN OF THE ANAEMIC WARRIOR

This being the year of the Horse (my year, according to the Chinese horoscope), I ought to be leaping about the place like a Disney princess, astride my dreams..

Instead, this summarises me rather neatly…

I have it on authority that I am anaemic and osteopenic - while not wildly so (not enough to be hooked up to receive a blood transfusion), it is enough to have me stapled to the bed most days. In between I write. My masters is nearly over, and I am almost done with the final 15,000 word project. But since I am only at the start of my memoir and novel, I feel as though there are great mountains yet to climb and I am sprawled at the foot of them, scrabbling about for nuts and berries to sustain myself. And green leafy vegetables… my dear Uncle Z bought me a blender and I plug into myself these nourishments. Here's hoping…

Cheers!

Illustrator of first image: Quentin Blake

Rest via google 

THE LAST DAY

So this is morning,
this grey wetness?

The Christmas lights
stay on all night
and the clocks
tick in the new year.

The willow looks ancient
this morning
Each leaf paid for in full;
Spring seems a long way
from calling
these weeping brown strings
her home.

Will the world look different
tomorrow?
Will the earth be greener?
Will love be truer?
Will I find my way
better,
       tomorrow?


(c) Shaista, 2013

CHRISTMAS FIRSTS

Do you remember when I wrote about my poems being worked into glass by a glassworks artist? The person who suggested my name was a poet herself, living and writing in Oxford - Dorothy sent me the poem below as a Christmas greeting. It's so lovely I know she won't mind me sharing it with all of you...

Rolling a snowball
Yukikorogashi

Utagawa Kuniteru (c.1830-70)

Snow rabbit

Why always snow men?

Why the A, the B, the C of snow?

Round the corner

someone is building an enormous rabbit,

funnelling its ears,

poking in twigs for whiskers,

and clearing a patch

of grass in front of its nose.       

Outside the King’s Arms

they’ve stacked up a snow giraffe,

and the lake in the park is full

of the dangerous whiteness of swans

beautifully sculpted on thin ice,

down to the last letter.

© Dorothy Mccarthy

Carl Larsson (1890-1919)

In Singapore, my brother and sister are witnessing the falling in love of a new generation with the old magic of Christmas… snow in Singapore!!

Elaborate mangers…

And Santa too, no doubt, bursting in with his reindeers to a soundtrack of Walt Disney's Fantasia… I shall be contented this Christmas Day, imagining Rafi's excitement, and eat my Christmas cookies, baked by a loving friend, with gusto…

A SWEET MERRY CHRISTMAS TO YOU, AND YOU AND YOU! 

BEFORE CHRISTMAS TURNED INTO AFTER

The wind is a howlin' tonight and although snow might not greet me tomorrow morning, I wonder how the trees will fare… this year I don't feel properly Christmassy (whatever that ought to feel like when you are no longer a child and the news confronts us with climate change and animal welfare and human rights horrors), and it was only when my beloved friend Mary sent me the poem below, that I felt a little comfort…

       BC:AD

       This was the moment when Before

       Turned into After, and the future's

       Uninvented timekeepers presented arms.

       

       This was the moment when nothing

       Happened. Only dull peace

       Sprawled boringly over the earth

       This was the moment when even energetic Romans

       Could find nothing better to do

       Than counting heads in remote provinces

          

       And this was the moment

       When a few farm workers and three

       Members of an obscure Persian sect

        

       Walked haphazard by starlight straight

       Into the kingdom of heaven

                                                      U. A. Fanthorpe

This was the year of the death of a great leader, and in my smaller world, births of a future. Christmas was meant to be about birth and those three members belonged to my people's obscure Persian sect - truly obscure, because nobody ever seems to know the Three Wise Men were Zoroastrians! I like to think of those obscure gentlemen, walking haphazardly, guided only by starlight, (and what else would one want to be guided by?) straight into the kingdom of heaven. Those last two lines? My idea of heaven...

IMAGES FROM THE MAG: The Ice Cutters, 1911, Natalia Goncharova
                                                 Madonna With the Milk Soup, 1510, Gerard David 

YOUNG ONES: THE NONCHALANT ANGELS

A little boy sits opposite me,
 absorbed in a game,
on a gadget I do not own,
 for which I have no name.

He kicks his heels up,
 (only his toes reach the ground);
in the chair beside him, his mother sleeps,
 curled, legs raised far above the ground.

He calls out to her,
 when he hits a particularly high score;
she jolts awake, unseeing,
 then falls back to sleep once more.

She is my sister, in this place
 where the needles preside;
it heals me with an aching love,
 to see her son never leave her side.

© Shaista, 2013

There are angels everywhere. I saw one in the little boy opposite me. I wrote the poem half-way through my infusion (and hers), but afterwards, I took some cake across to him. A friend recently celebrated his birthday and since I was too fatigued to attend, he dropped by some petit fours this morning. Thankyou Simon! The nurses enjoyed some first (by 7:30pm they were flagging as much as I was) and then I walked over to the angel. He took only one piece, even though I cajoled him to take more, and he spoke so sweetly and gently while his mother looked on and smiled. We suffer from similar conditions and exchanged the usual wry affection, each as tired as the other, and I thought of kneeling before them and reciting my poem, but my brother was waiting to pick me up and so I walked away on a wish of luck and hope and friendship postponed. I think the little boy would have liked 'his' poem, but the cake was poem enough.
I am working on my memoir, slowly, but with great determination - the chemo/monoclonal infusion takes eight hours and I write and create and connect across time with poets and like minds - today, Tupac Shakur, who, at 18, rhymed soulfully in journals that resemble mine.

first image from The Mag

WEAVING FOR CAMELOT

There she weaves by night and day…

She has heard a whisper say

A curse is on her if she stay

To look down to Camelot.

She knows not what the curse may be

And so she weaveth steadily…

"I am half-sick of shadows," said

The Lady of Shalott.

- Alfred, Lord Tennyson

I am half-sick of shadows too… Twenty years this month, since I last spent Christmas in India, where cotton wool replaced the snow on the fir tree outside our bedroom window (we could only ever reach the first layers of branches, so the tree always looked extremely strange and wonderful). This Christmas I don't want to think about commerce and duty, only the memory of the Red Cross choir who would come to sing for each house on our street, and for the candles lit and mangers built in every department of the hospital where my father consulted. Simpler times, authentic times - Santa was fun but not the essence. Jesus was, and so was light and hope...

Image from The Mag: Autumn on the River, 1889, John Singer Sargent

SCOTOMA (DANCER IN THE DARK)

My eyes dance,
my soul trembles
my nerves collapse under the strain -
I close my eyes,
the dancer whirls,
I seek her limbs in vain -

Hold on to me! I cry,
but she will not settle down
She scintillates and obfuscates -
until, exhausted, dissipates
and I am sane and still again,
and I am sane once more.

© Shaista Tayabali, 2013

I wrote about my scintillating scotomas two years ago (I called that poem Firework in My Eyes). Once, it happened just before my nephew's baptism, while I was in the church and all I could do was hold on to the chair and trust that I would see again. They begin as spots of flickering lights which devour my visual field in shimmering arcs or teichopsia (from the Greek for 'town hall' because of the zigzagging patterns of fortified walls)... 'Don't look at the light,' suggested a doctor. As well tell me 'don't breathe'. How can I survive without looking at light? The scotomas are temporary events. They pass, and I am left with a classic migraine with aura. Is it neurological? Is it cardiovascular? Or simply rotten luck?
To be a writer, you have to write. The words take time to form themselves. I am trying to write, trying to earn my place, but I am struggling so much to keep the faith. I am never lost entirely to self pity, but I do fear uselessness. As a daughter of artists, however, there is one anchor I use to keep myself afloat: in all the murk, I am always able to determine colour. And that thought cheers me even as I swipe at the dervishes to keep still...

All paintings by Degas, but the first prompted by Magpie Tales