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Testing the water

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Three poems by Aman

#1

Uncertainty unbound

The walls made of bricks

Hold no solace,

The hum I recall is gone!

 

I move to the unknown,

Yearning for the song

Which perhaps may be my own

 

A long wait it’s been

To hear the sound

That beckons

To the far horizon

 

And should the note ring true

Will I really reach that elusive hue?

 

#2

To yearn for a grand morrow

to have striven for the ray of thought

only to realise you’re happiest with your lot.

 

Know your need, not the want, ‎the path reaps the price,

Alas only the old now realise.

 

Even the “great” in death strive to tell us,

we depart empty handed‎ the way “He” had made us.

 

‘Tis just me, young in body tho’ old in mind‎,

How fortunate, I understand, there is yet time.‎

 #3

The words that you see; mean not what they say.  The path that we follow will lead us astray. A pinnacle we reach, clawing our way through a shroud, all we achieve is a modicum of doubt. Let not the rational lead you otherwise, the path turns to thorns, in our twilight we realise. Break out break through for you and your own; like Charles did eons ago unknown. We build but to no avail; our bones will turn to dust no matter o’er whom we prevail.

 

Intimations of old age

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Natural-Ways-To-Cure-Headache-Hot-Cup-of-TeaWhile going through some old papers, like many a writer, I find fragments of things I’ve written over the years, mostly poems, sometimes stories, and sometimes rants. This one is in a melancholy mood, reminding me of my first nostalgic recognition that time was catching up with me and could soon run out.

 

 

 

“Grow old along with me,”  you said

Sipping tea, aromatic with bergamot

Steam rising like a ghost,

I smiled,

Ready to join you on that journey

 

We ran across

Piano keys playing seconds

Racing up and down the scale

The assonances picked up

Wedding rings and kisses

Children

Sharps and flats.

 

The melody of spring time

Chased by summer’s desertification

Of our lives

That

And the first grey hair in my mirror.

 

Forgotten by the time autumn

Had ripened our fruit

Sent dandelion children

Floating on the breeze

 

Again I fill your cup of tea

Just one now, no sugar

Still bergamot flavoured

With steam

Escaping like warm breath

At the start of winter’s chill.

A challenge

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I received this challenge, ‘create a poem on the following picture’

Unknown

my response:

When Hope was captured in a jar

Pandora set her free

But not before she had unleashed

Every evil that could be.

 

Some would set a caged bird free

To fly unfettered in the air

And some would say that keeping it

Safe, shows that you care.

 

But Hope and birds and butterflies

And bats and spirits too

Artist’s hearts and writers’ dreams

Must soar and never rue

 

The strictures and the structures

Of form and shape and size

They must explore the wider world

Of fiction…

And the poetry of lies.

…je talk Francais very bien, thank you beaucoup…

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From Seumas Gallacher, laugh-a-minute

Seumas Gallacher's avatarSeumas Gallacher

luggage

…I s’pose enuff water has passed under the proverbial bridge since the following true account, that merely changing the names to protect the guilty will suffice to ward off a lawsuit for my telling of it… in an early passage in my banking career in the Far East, my immediate boss was a Frenchman… and one of a certain breed of person who wouldn’t listen to what he was being advised …on anything!… (not confined, this, to my Gaul-ish associates, by the way)…

frenchman

…yeez all know people like this… no matter what indisputable evidence yeez place in front of them, they know different… they know better…they just… just… know!… the kind that tell yeez  ‘when I want yer advice, I’ll give it to yeez’… well, the Peerless Pierre was down to make a business trip encompassing various parts of Scandinavia, principally in Norway and Sweden……

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A 50-word story

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I was thrilled when I learnt that my 50-word story, based on a poem I’d written, has been selected as the winner in a competition on Oapschat.

It is based on a real event that took place in the souk several months ago. First it was a poem, then it became a pithy story. Believe me, writing flash fiction – of any length – is quite a demanding exercise.

I’d love to feature anyone else’s 50-word stories here, do share. Sorry no prizes but if, in my opinion, your story merits it, I shall feature it here.

If you don’t want to follow the link here’s the winning story:

You know Kite Runner?”

The Afghani salesman asked.

“Yes,” I ignored him, “How much?” indicating amethyst earrings.

He opened his lacerated hands.

Ashamed, I looked at him. “I loved the book.”

His hand on his heart, “I have more stories will you write them?”

“A thousand times.”

“Tashakor,” He smiled.

Over to you…

 

And here I am, holding my prize: “My Gentle War” by Joy Lennick the judge at Oapschat the publication that ran the competition.

2014-11-12 11.38.08

The World of Silence

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by  Fr. Denis Lemieux

Where silence is, man is observed by silence. Silence looks at man more than man looks at silence. Man does not put silence to the test; silence puts man to the test.

Silence is the only phenomenon today that is “useless”. It does not fit into the world of profit and utility; it simply is. It seems to have no other purpose; it cannot be ex­ploited… It gives things something of its own holy uselessness, for that is what silence itself is: holy uselessness.
The basic phenomena take us, as it were, back to the beginning of things; we have left behind us what Goethe called “the merely derived phenomena” with which we normally live. It is like a death, for we are left on our own, faced with a new beginning—and so we are afraid.

Still like some old, forgotten animal from the beginning of time, silence towers above all the puny world of noise; but as a living animal, not an extinct species, it lies in wait, and we can still see its broad back sinking ever deeper among the briers and bushes of the world of noise. It is as though this prehistoric creature were gradually sinking into the depths of its own silence. And yet sometimes all the noise of the world today seems like the mere buzzing of insects on the broad back of silence.
Max Picard, The World of Silence

Reflection – This is an obscure book by an obscure author that a couple of us at MH have discovered recently, and that I am enjoying very much. The author writes with poetic, almost mystical conviction on what I think is an important subject, perhaps one of the most important subjects there is, in fact.

Our world today flees from silence. There was a study at the University of Virginia recently that was much reported in the media, where a large percentage of people, when asked to simply sit in silence without any distractions for a mere fifteen minutes, preferred to administer mild electric shocks to themselves rather than do that.

‘Silence puts man to the test’. And so we flee from it. We surround ourselves with distractions—electronic devices on which we can play games, listen to music, watch movies, chatter away or follow the twittering chatter of others. It is not that all these devices are evil and must be rejected (it would be rather hypocritical for me to suggest that), but rather they must be put away regularly, turned off frequently, silenced daily.

It is a very deep matter, this necessity of silence for the human person. It is this whole business of uselessness, of a non-utilitarian mode of being. Our world today, insofar as it cluttered by noise and chatter and ceaseless activity, is a world of utilitarian values. What use is it? That is the only question. If something is not delivering some value to us–diverting us, feeding us, informing us—then it is useless and to be thrown aside.

But as with things, so it is with people, right? We cannot adopt a utilitarian attitude towards life without extending that towards the people in our life too. And of course then we have the phenomenon of people being thrown away, or at best (and what a sad and pathetic best it is) judged and valued by how ‘useful’ they are. An insecure and terrible way of being.

And so we have the need for this holy uselessness of silence. Picard is right—silence is the one thing that cannot be exploited economically. It is available to us, free, at the simple price of turning off all the sources of noise in our life. And it is a very deep matter—Picard is a very deep writer indeed on this subject.

Silence as ‘death’, as returning us to the immediate experience of reality, underived, uninterpreted, raw and naked, like Adam at his creation, silence as this vast towering reality that surrounds us and threatens to engulf us, silence as a constant presence encompassing the world of noise—these are serious things to consider. We flee from silence; really, in this we are fleeing from reality, from ourselves and from God. Ought we?

NOTE: Fr Denis is a friend’s spiritual director, a priest of Madonna House, which is her spiritual home and community located in Ontario, Canada. He has a blog TEN THOUSAND PLACES which you can easily access (http://frdenis.blogspot.com) but he no longer invites comments as he is a very very busy priest and cannot attend to all
he is also an author of several books

In memory of my mother

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July 18th was my mother’s birthday. Every year it rolls around and every year I think of her. She was a major influence in my life and today I think I have the strength to post the eulogy I wrote for her. I wasn’t able to attend her funeral or her memorial service, so my sister read this out to the scores of people who came to pay their respects to her.

TO MY MOTHER

“Woman, behold thy son, behold thy mother.” That was one of my mother’s favourite quotations from the Bible. For son, I think we can all read ‘child’. The other was the Good Friday hymn, ‘At the cross her station keeping, stood the mother gently weeping’. For her these were like guiding lights. And, she was above all else a mother, as fiercely maternal as a Bengal tigress. I think she would have liked the metaphor – no, she’d correct me, that’s a simile. And, although many of us in our family were at the receiving end of her particularly well-honed tongue, I think I can confidently say that we had all also been at the receiving end of her maternal care. She has comforted, helped, taught and just plain ‘been there’ for more people than I think I’ll ever know. A little thing could move her from being a towering inferno to a tower of strength. And only ma could get away with combining both.

Speaking for myself, she taught me everything, from school lessons to the big one about life. Not so much by what she said as by her actions. From as far back as I can remember she embodied what today people would call ‘feminism’. She didn’t hang a name on it. She just went out there and did it. I’ve seen her playing squash in a sari. I believe she played a deft game of tennis and badminton too. She swam, unembarrassed, in a swimming pool at a time when we rarely saw other women even get into the water. She drove a car long before we saw other ladies drive, at any rate in some places in India places like Bangalore and Jamnagar way back in the 1950s. She was a strong woman with very definite views and we secretly nicknamed her sergeant major.

Thanks to her, we had boyfriends and broken hearts and she was always, I now recall, not obtrusively there, but there; with her ‘there’s many more fish in the sea’ wisdom. Afraid as we often were of her, we knew that we had no stronger champion when it came to doing something new, different and perhaps not popular with the older generation of my time. I remember her interest in theatre. She took part in a play for which I helped her learn her lines but I wondered how she could stand up in front of all those people. She gave me an interest in Art, and took us to dozens of art exhibition that we enjoyed and they weren’t school trips. Books, we shared. I recall my mother giggling out loud over a book called Aunty Mame and then laughing over it myself. Poetry. And with the passing years I’ve found myself digging around in the garden finally coming to her enjoyment of plants and the regeneration that they represent.

Today, more than anything else, that’s what she would like us to celebrate: the regeneration of her love. Growing, and like the earth, giving forth of its bounty, where our tears are merely the rain which makes flowers called Smiles, Laughter and that most beautiful rose of all, the one that’s called Remembrance.

After tremors

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Having just finished reading Khaled Hosseini’s And the Mountains Echoed, I recall a conversation I had some years ago in the Bab al Bahrain souk.

 

‘You know, that guy,’ he says

Between the displays

Of Lapis Lazuli and silverware

‘The one who wrote Kite Runner?’

I nod, my eyes coveting

A single large bracelet

Woven with fine strands of silver

Into exquisitely painful

Circles and arabesques

Imprisoning

A myriad stones

Inscrutable opals, amethysts

As purple as bruises on a tender face

‘What about him?’ I ask

Half caressing the bracelet

And pointing at

A pair of earrings dripping

Blood-red garnets

Set in marcasite.

Thinking, ‘what does he know of

Kite Runner, he looks as though

He can barely read

Selling jewellery in a store

Over-stuffed with shawls, rugs, woodworked boxes

And glitzy

perhaps-these-western-tourists-will-like-them

Waistcoats and table runners.’

Then I see it

Desperation woven into tiny errors

in the embroidery

Startled by a gunshot.

So, I ask again

This time waiting for his response,

‘What about him?

The book was so moving, so violent.’

‘Ta-shakor’ he replies

‘But they were like nothing’

He whispers

Holding the silver bracelet up for me

Quoting a price and adding

‘Like the stories I have in here.’

He points at his head and his heart.

I see half a lifetime

As it leaks out of his hands

Torn fingernails

The intricate patterns

Woven by hard manual labour

Deep cuts on the side

From scrabbling down a mountainside

Hiding in caves

Or was it from protecting his face

Against knife attacks?

As he enters the sale

For the day.

Twenty-one again!

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21 for 21

…that’s what the invitation said. That number took me back to the day I turned twenty-one. When the palate was young and my taste buds were alive to every nuance of flavour and texture. Back then, when aromas teased one’s nostrils, they imprinted olfactory memories onto my grey cells to be drawn upon in later life.

It was a time when intense was the shade of every colour in the rainbow, even those less vivid like green and yellow hidden between blue and orange. When a sunset was grist to my writer’s mill and could, on one day move me to tears and on another to revel in the joy of being.

So what has all this meandering in my memory banks got to do with an invitation from Obai & Hill and those lovely ladies Wafa and Zainab to Vapiano’s 21 for 21 press event?

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