On the Cusp of Knowing

The whole village knows. Yesterday at our friend Victoria's summer lunch party, the impending wedding of a Tayabali son danced from lip to lip like a happy cabbage butterfly drunk on nectar and petal.

Everyone loves a good holiday chat, and who doesn't love a wedding when it isn't theirs to plan?

I danced around, much like that butterfly, in startling green shoes, green hat and a mega watt smile, chirping and twittering and offering green guacamole on toast.

When I tired, I snuck into the conservatory, and drank sweet tea under a bower of bougainvillea. Green and flowers are my battery chargers and I soon flitted out again.

I am making place cards with dried flowers. I find myself greedily eyeing Other People's flowers and rather avariciously creeping my fingers towards said flowers before my mother smacks my fingers away. I am taking England with me - bluebells and daisies, forget-me-nots, primula, sage and lovage. I wish I could take the wisteria. It has never looked lovelier, bloomier; thick with purple scent, dripping with promise, the wisteria is on the cusp of knowing.

Down by the Vicarage, the wisteria are just as beautiful. It has been the home of my father's dear friend Ralph for many years. It boasts one of the most artistic and carefully tended gardens, and there Ralph decided to end his days. The cancer came fast and hit hard, and my father misses the aimless tuneful whistling that burst out of Ralph every time he left our house. "Goodbye, Cho!" he'd say to my father. "Goodbye kid!" he'd say to my mother.

Weddings and whistlings goodbye. It is ever thus.

Where the Frangipani Blows, Only the Cobweb Knows

Feels like rain

hot and cool

swathes of muslin breeze

pour silently

into me

Until thunder comes

and my heart breaks open

great cascades tumble

Out,

where the blue skies

reign

and I am no longer
a prisoner of pain.

19th of May. Ten days since I last wrote. My subscribers and followers are dropping like flies! Should I apologise? I am including a watercolour by my father and an oil on canvas by my mother to make amends. I have been back into hospital for the second round of monoclonals, this time without the supplementary treatment of immunoglobulins. And my body is not happy. I feel frail and fragile and temporary. I am a piece of cheese being grated by a very thorough hand. I am grains of gritty sand.

I am also the sister of a brother about to be wedded. Did I tell you? The wedding that was supposed to happen last year was derailed by my hospital adventures. And now, here it is, almost upon us. Ten days before I leave for a hot hot country. Ten days before I leave these cobwebs behind and find a frangipani me.

Ma

At the worst, the very worst
You are there
When the mirror breaks
and my heart,
You ache
and your aching
heals me.

When I can never be right
and my scars illuminate
You perceive me
perfect and whole.

No words.

There are no words.
Only time, passing,
and Love,
that ever presence,
holding us close.


- Shaista



Maaaaaaaa!!!!!!!
Happy Mother's Day, beautiful, talented Perveen - the one who makes it all possible.
Without you, nothing.

With you, every day is Mother's Day :)

Orange

Orange
has many shades

It is the colour of change

Orange is what you feel

in a flirty skirt

and golden gladiator sandals.

Orange makes love

with her spirit

Has her own chakra

Turns cartwheels

on a national flag.

Can be eaten

by the dozen

in Haiti, on a hot day,

as you climb miles

of dusty track

to visit a dying child.

Orange can save your life.

Sometimes, very rarely

Orange

can be misunderstood

misused, even abused.

Whose eyes are these
that cannot see

the aura of good?

Not the ones concealed

beneath

the complementary black hood.

The list of requirements
is simple.
You have to hate.

Declare yourself an Agent

of the Enemy of the State.

Then wait

for the bombs to detonate,

while the detainees contemplate

Who hates who

more?

Just so you know

I am thinking of you

Brothers of the Bay

in your isolated cages

in your suffocating spaces

I am trying to free you

I am trying to believe in you

Orange.

Poem, copyright 2010, Shaista