Tag Archive: Ché











astrophysics, astronomy, and love …




she smiled, she looked at me, incredulous, her jaw dropped,


” how on earth can you be so sure about that ? “


well i had to explain, because motion at this velocity cannot be simply stopped,


so i thought, this was the bloke who sported mops of hair, yet couldn’t do without close shaves,


so i said to her, i said,


” gravitational waves “






          ____________________



Gravitational waves are disturbances in the curvature of spacetime, generated by accelerated masses, that propagate as waves outward from their source at the speed of light. 


source: Wikipedia

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Artwork from Google







letting go …





scratching

at wounds


picking

scabs


unleashing pain


twisting knives

turning effortlessly


amid the cacophonous romp

of highfives …



letting go

of

scraped souls


eroded

by

dishevelled dignity


stung

wrung

strung


and

hung


to dispel quaint smiles


perfected over a million wounded miles


shattering consciensces

along the way


blinding

blinkering

rose-tinted phantasy

day to groteque day


clogging vision

hazing eyes


tugging

pulling

tearing

down

curtains


leaving eyes

blinded

blinkered


unseeing

unfeeling …



while broken stems

mend gently


elsewhere


plucked

along strings


strings

strung

and

strummed


igniting

numbed senses


sublime flavours

on clouds of

touch

taste


melding

fusing


myriad dreams

into

dreadlocked hopes


entwined

intertwined


knowing the paths ahead

to be

far from kind


still

setting forth


yet

moving


ever moving

forward onward


hearts ablaze

hopeful


letting go

of it all


leaving it all

far far behind …






Artwork from Google

A Baobab Tree – Artwork from Google





as we walk …




though today we tread on broken glass,


our time shall come to pass,


when we may walk past the travails we seem to amass, 


and beyond the splinters of all that is crass …




A Baobab Tree – artwork from google

Artwork from Google





dawn breaking …




dawn breaking




1.



willowy brushstrokes,

conjured sketches,


painted,

etched,

embossed,


hewn between forgotten morns,


waking,

splintering,

straining, against each other,


ceaseless,

relentless,

endless,


empty,

a vacuum,


an abyss of night.




2.



still,

hope blazes,


bright,

radiant,

smiling,


though measured,

disciplined,


while embracing,

enveloping,


and always

surrendering to the eternal promise,


raging,

hungering,

aching,



the promise of a new dawn breaking



Artwork from Google

tread lightly

from Google





tread lightly …





Tread lightly, for many hearts lay strewn upon these roads,


alone, their plaintive calls heard by none,


just the birds whose doleful odes sing out in the dawn skies.




The world sleeps, the daily grind yet to begin,


when polished shoes shall trample those lonesome hearts,


that lay on roads where garbage trucks rid the new day of yesterday’s memories,


where leaves and crushed petals are swept aside,


and tattered hearts, alone again, creep into corners to hide


 



from Google



Dr. Carl Sagan 1934 – 1996





moonbeams …




struck by moonbeams,

my nights devoid of lifes nectar, hope, dreams,


are at once, emblazoned,

awash in the hues of your smile,


sketched, engraved,

carved, painted in the rainbow shades of your eyes,


your eyes, free,

unfettered, unshackled,

shedding the burdensome weight of lies,


knowing well how mercilessly fickle time flies.,


so allow me to drown,

in the ocean of your eyes,


we’ll fly together,

away from it all,


into your dreamy skies …




Quote from Google

Artwork by Banksy





h o m e . . .





what is home to the vagabond soul,

                   spiralling,

                   splintering,


                   skewered,

                   unwhole.




plodding along,

                 paths of

              broken glass,



comforting,

                   cajoling,

                   assuring

             my tattered soul:


that these desolate moments,

                

                  must


                  also

            

                  pass





Artwork from Google

in these times

Artwork from Google






in these times …




In these times,

when you feel the walls closing in on you,


in these times,

when you feel the world to be hypocritically untrue,


in these times,

when you feel all your lifeblood being sucked out of you.





In these times,

when people seem shallow, heartless too,


in these times,

when you feel yourself a bystander in your own life, not having a clue,


in these times,

when every breath seems a mammoth task, when the air seems sucked out too.




These are those times when nothing offers peace,


when no solace can be found,


when all you feel is dragging yourself along the tear stained ground,


these are those times,

when asphyxiation threatens your soul,


when you scream with all your might, without hearing a sound,


these are those times,

when the world is a blurry haze, with a rancid stench that keeps jabbing you on the rebound.




It is in these moments,

when all hope disappears,


when all is lost in trepidation and gnawing fears,


it is in these moments,

when you plumb the depths of your soul,


when you beseech the Gods above even as your faith may have taken a toll,


it is in these moments,


that you fight to smash the shackles, so you may be free,


it is in these moments,


that we wish to simply,


be …





Artwork from Google

s h e

Artwork from Google




She …



remains out of focus,

an elusive portrait hard to find,


etched deep in the innermost recesses of my mind.




she,


strays into view, a mirage,

a burnished silhouette, an imperceptible blur, 


though through miles and years, my soul has been infused by her.




she,



fills the void, the fragments of my days,


a welcome guest,

sifting emotions from empty space.




she,


caresses my scribbles in the singing breeze, dancing with effortless grace,


my odes hardly deserving, as they vanish without a trace.




she,


renders me mute,

a wild dreamer of sultry thoughts, sensuous visions, enveloping and warm,


as we travel far, far away, from the cacophony of the swarm.




she,


embodies all of nature, her subtle humanity a healing balm to me,


swirling magically across time, spreading our wings to soar free.




she,



comes as she chooses,


an untamed spirit,


soothing a lifetime of my bruises.




she,


rouses me in nights of slumber,


her breath brushing my cheeks with kisses too many to number.




she,


remains the enigmatic one,


a burning riddle,

staying within me as each day is done.




she,


is my constant, consoling my days, gentle as the leaf, 


that in the wind sways,




she,


deserves so more than me from fate,


she loves far too much, and she has no room for hate.




she,


arrives each night as i lie awake, 


whispering that we will always have each other in this cellophane world,


so irredeemably fake.




she,


stays with me, and within she me stays still,


through the years, the tears, dwelling deep inside me where she always will.




she,

who knows how desolate this world can be,


she,

who remains the sustainer of my hopes,


she,

who unshackles the chains that bind me,


she,


who sets me free …





Artwork from Google

cellophane skies

Artwork from Google




cellophane skies …



 

when cellophane skies fall


swirling down


settling gently

on marshmallow clouds


of chocolate whispers


velveteen murmurs

form crisp peppermint kisses


hazelnutty dreams still burn bright


and

the feeling


feeling roars and rages


and so

may it rage forever on



through rough oncoming tides


always


through ensuing epochs and ages …




Artwork from Google

t h r e a d s

artwork from google





threads …



threads, weaving through splintered nights,


strings, embroidering clouds aflight,


patterns, woven,


hewn, chiselled,

etched, sketched,


wrought, in bowels of fiery pain,


loss, helplessness,

grief, love, aching desire,


forged, burnished bright,


in sweltering dreamy nights,


a moth to a flame,

lapped by tongues of fire,


alone, at last,

to rest,


away from the flimflam,


far, far away from the ceaseless, ravenous game …




artwork ftom google

Artwork from Google




on the cusp …





trawling turquoise seas,

cast adrift,

                   your eyes caressing fitful slumber,

                        whispering paens,

           soothing the ache,


of this weary traveller,

parched,

               thirsty,

                            alone,


cresting waves,

                           treading water,

             hither and thither,


a tattered heart,

                             a wounded soul,

        bathing my being,

                                      nestling,

       in cocooned dreams of your honeydew lips,



seeing,

            feeling,

                         tasting,

                                      your breath,


soaked in visions of you,


the mirage,

                    a crescendo fanning flames of desire,

                                            of love, lust, tremulous fingers,


brushing your hair away,

sipping kisses,


consumed by the furnace,

your body, mine,

                                    entwined,


hungering for your tongue,

fiery,

         insistent,

                         true,



soaring above vagabond skies of blue,

             unshackled at last,


             craving only you …





Artwork from Google

freeversing nonsensical blah

Artwork by Banksy






freeversing nonsensical blah-blah …





so we work and we eat, even though we are still asleep in the bubble of our own conceit, faking crocodile smiles, while breaking up inside, layering on the facade of being alright, while all the while, we tear at our shattering tears carried inside, lost in the crowd of judgement, the cloud of racism – now our default state –

 the naked face of homophobic hate, picking and choosing what and who’s human-rights matter, while holding on tight to religious beliefs, thinking not twice to the “others” culture and faith smash and shatter, and still we go on and on, the trump card of nationalistic jingoistic drivel being spewed, treating those who choose to love differently from us us, baiting those who pray to other gods, those whose colour and culture isn’t “ours”, as we bow down and grovel to wealth and power, as we in front of tv-sets cower, gobbling up the reality shows of the greedy and the rich, even as our reality is our collective dignity rotting in a toxic ditch, yes we are hypocrites one and all, you and me, destroying our environment, cutting downs trees, vomiting sewage into our blue planet’s once pristine seas, all so that we may be, draped in luxuries the 1% tempt us with, poisoning our thoughts that we need gucci and prada and diamonds and gold, while into crushing, gruesome poverty, and in sweatshops our sisters and brothers are sold, human beings all who laugh and cry and who love and need the basics that which for granted we take, as our embraced blindness ensures that for our comforts the “others” must break, the sweat pouring off 15 year olds who stitch together and sew, the clothes we envelope ourselves with feigning not to know, the price, the toll of suffering that rains down everyday, just as we consume and fly buy dubai, never giving a hoot for the oceans of tears that the 99% cry, because of course, we must look better than the rest, we must conform to the illusion that is sold to us, and even as we pray to our gods with humility and faith, we disregard everything ugly, explaining it all away, as the divine powers putting everyone through a test, with no room to breathe or love or think, for we ride around in obscene cars, not caring about the rest of humanity’s scars – as long as it’s a ferrari and as long as it is blood red, as long as we live in mansions of comfort, cloaked in 

the finest and eating haute cuisine in haute couture, we our humanity do freely shed, while we pay our way, our obligatory charity and million dollar philanthropy, we then tear our eyes out to all the blood that must be shed, for our status quo to remain intact, for if we do not see, then no longer can we culpable be, paying our “servants” to pick up after our trophy kids, as we abuse religion to be of all guilt free, while all this time, the “leaders” of this world stoke up fear, that the “others” are at the borders just waiting to snatch all it is that we hold dear, and as all our “leaders” create this fake charade, this glittering parade, this repugnant theme park where we must play, it matters not who they bomb and kill and maim and slay, and yes I agree, that there are many who enslave and transform their countries into a living hell, but we are duped as our “leaders” to those very countries do armaments and bombs and mines and guns do sell, for it is all about the money, be it in tree lined suburbs or in the corridors of power, for it is all about rapacious greed, as we pick and choose convenient verses upon which we feed, freeing ourselves from our callous complicity, just as long as the other half starve across the railway tracks, it is so much more comforting to turn our collective backs, to the overwhelming number of humans who barely survive on a dollar a day, while we build towers of worship in which we pray, not just to god but to towers of tax-exempt loopholes, not just to god but to the machine that makes mincemeat of our brothers and sisters, just as long as we, on the cool spray of water guzzling golf courses drink and play …


… and yes, I too am guilty, 100% so, not caring about the seeds of toxicity that along with you I sow, but again who am I to care, who am I to even spare, a thought for those who do not get their fair share,


just as long as I can eat and ride my chariots laden with riches,


just as long as I can remain in this cocoon of uncaring slumber so deep,


and just as long as I on my soft bed,


in my fancy mansion,


can peacefully sleep …






Artwork by Banksy

Artwork by Banksy







talkin’ midnight ravings blues … … …





why are these lies casually spoken, by mouths torn, bruised, broken,



I am fine



no i am not fine, im as fine as a dung dusted shoe is from a shine, im not fine, im lost, between alluring dreams, and silent screams, sometimes a duet, mostly a cacophony of noise, white and bland and dull, just enough to discern, that humanity is null, humaneness void, and of all conscience, devoid … … …




Artwork by Banksy

let us walk together

Artwork from Google







I told her that I love her.


she smiled.



I vowed to love her forevermore.



she smiled.



I said “let’s walk this earth together, not knowing where the paths lead“.



she smiled,


let’s






Photograph from Google

Artwork from Google




i love her.





1.




she found me, as torrents raged around me,


she found me, when my wings were shattered,


she found me, when i was desolately crawling,


she found me, in the depths of despair,


she found me, trapped in the quagmire,


she found me.




2.




she reached down, her hand extended,


she pulled me out of, the lair of emptiness,


she helped me stand, after my legs had been battered,


she fed me, nourishing my soul,


she led me, into pastures green and alive,


she held me, in the cocoon of her embrace.




3.




i was not worthy, of her delicate touch,


i was not worthy, lying in a discarded alleyway,


i was not worthy, of her healing embrace,


i was not worthy, of her tender love,


i was not worthy then, i am not worthy now,


i had nothing, and still have nothing to give,


still, she loved me, and loves me still.






Artwork from Google

my mother – a true story

Comrade Nelson Mandela’s mother and my mother – demonstrating against the jailing of political prisoners, including Comrade Nelson Mandela and my father – sometime in the mid-1950s or early-1960s


Letter of condolence from President Nelson Mandela to my father on the day my mother passed on in 2008




my mother – a true story …

My mother used tell me this with tears in her eyes.



My mother left South Africa in the 1960’s to join my father who was in political exile at the time in Zambia and Tanzania.



My father was a close comrade and friend of Nelson Mandela and shared the cell next to Mandela during one of their periods of being jailed by the Apartheid security services.



My father later escaped from Marshall Square jail along with his comrades, Abdulhay Jassat, Harold Wolpe, and Arthur Goldreich.



The four escapees were then were spirited out of South Africa as there was a then £2000 reward for them to be captured – dead or alive.



In 1970 my father was deployed by the African National Congress of South Africa (ANC) to India to be its Chief-Representative there.



I was born in New Delhi a couple of years later in 1972.



My mother and father spent two years in Mumbai (then Bombay).



One afternoon my father fell and broke his leg.



My mother knocked on their neighbour’s door of the apartment complex where they lived.



The neighbour was an elderly Punjabi lady.



My mother asked the elderly lady for assistance in calling a doctor to see to my injured father.



A Zoroastrian (Parsi) ‘bone-setter’ was promptly summoned.



My mother and the elderly neighbour got to talking and the lady asked my mother where they were from, as their accents were clearly not local.



My mother told the elderly Punjabi lady that my father worked for the African National Congress of South Africa and had been forced into exile to continue to struggle to raise awareness internationally about the appalling situation in Apartheid South Africa.



My mother also mentioned that they had to leave their two young children (my siblings, whom I met only later in life) behind in South Africa, in the care of grandparents, and that they were now essentially political refugees.



The elderly lady broke down and wept uncontrollably.



She told my mother that she too had to leave their home in Lahore in 1947 and flee to India with only the clothes on their back when the partition of the subcontinent took place and when Pakistan was torn from India and formed, due to narrow religious and sectarian reasons, whose repercussions are felt to this day.



This was also a time when religious violence wreaked havoc, and untold suffering and death for millions of human beings.



The elderly lady then asked my mother what her name was.



‘Zubeida’, but you can call me ‘Zubie’.



The Punjabi woman hugged Zubeida some more, and the two women, seperated by age and geography, by religion and all the things that seek to divide humanity,  wept, for they could understand the pain and trauma of a shared experience.



The elderly Punjabi lady told my mother that she was her ‘sister’ from that day on, and that she too felt the pain of exile after being forced to become refugees, and what being a refugee felt like.



Zubie and her husband Mosie (my father) and the family next door became the closest of friends.



Then came the time for Mosie and Zubie to leave for Delhi where the African National Congress (ANC) office was to be officially opened.



The elderly Punjabi lady and Mosie and Zubie said their goodbyes.



A year or two later, the elderly lady’s daughter Lata married Ravi Sethi and the couple moved to Delhi.



The elderly lady telephoned Zubie and told her that her daughter was coming to Delhi to live there, and that she had told Lata, her daughter that she had a ‘sister’ in Delhi, and that she should not feel alone.



Lata and Ravi Sethi then moved to Delhi in the mid-1970’s.



Lata and Zubie became the closest of friends and that bond stayed true, till the both my mother passed away in 2008.



My father and I still feel a close bond with Lata and Ravi Sethi, and vice versa.



A bond that was forged between Hindu and Muslim and between two countries of South Africa and of India, shattering the barriers of creed and of time.



A bond strong and resilient, forged by the pain and trauma of a shared experience.



That is why I shall never stop believing that hope shines still, for with so much religious bigotry almost consuming our world today, there will always be a woman, somewhere, anywhere, who would take the ‘other’ in as a sister, and as a fellow human being.



And that is why, I believe, that there will always be hope.



Hope in the midst of unbearable pain and hope in the midst of loss and of unspeakable suffering.



Hope.



For we can never give up hope for a better world.



Never!




(For aunty Lata’s late-mother, my mother’s ‘sister’ and who took us all into her heart, and for Lata and Ravi Sethi of Defence Colony, New Delhi, India)




Comrade Nelson Mandela and my father – Johannesburg sometime in the mid-1950s

Comrade President Nelson Mandela and my father – Johannesburg sometime in the 2000s

Artwork from Google





fingers …




entwined,

                 murmuring silent caresses,

                scribbling gibberish,


high above the cresting hopes,

            awash,

                        engulfed,

in the deluge,


of softly soaked-monsoon kisses,


adrift,

           free,

                   fingers, entwined,


teasing responses,

                           enmeshed, fused, between undulating waves,

            crashing,

                            within,

                                        our wordless universe,


in unison,

                 fingers entwined,

our oneness,

                      together, now,


presently,

                 present,


like ribbons and bows,

wrapped,


intermingling amidst shades,

                                   merging into hue,


breathing each other,

                                      in,


all of me,

                all of you …





Artwork from Google

nonsensical raving

Artwork from Google





nonsensical raving …



dreaming of unfettered tomorrows, with no weight of the now bogging us down, no more plasticine smiles, stuck on fake faces, all worn to get through a single day. no more vacuum sealed desires, to be consumed within three days after opening, the sham of it all boldly apparent, mirroring our cardboard selves.


when does it end, this gold-plated facade, this charade of having it all, and having it all together, without cracks on the edges, as unnatural as neatly trimmed hedges.


where did we go so wrong, our vocal acquiescence to the shimmering glittering circus that breezed through town some day decades ago, promising gags whilst gagging us to what should be real, ripping out our souls as we gleefully smiled, inured to the amputation of feeling, draining us slowly as our very selves were left reeling.


and what of today, as we glide through aisles, trying on this or that face, being ever egged on to join the rat race, without which we are rendered impotent, as barren as the desert of hope, while we are still, perennially, expected and aspire to smile and to cope …





Artwork from Google

Comrade and Martyr Dulcie September


African National Congress of South Africa




A Tribute to Comrade Dulcie September.

Born: 20 August 1935, Athlone Cape Town.

Assassinated: 29 March 1988, Paris, France.





Escaping the omnipresent shadows,

eluding the sweaty palms of the torturer,

remaining steadfast to not believing that you wore the skin of shame,

in hiding, here and there, with no one,

yet everyone to silently blame.



Leaving the lips once kissed behind,

to a refuge impossible to find,

not a word of sad welcome,

severing all ties that bind.



When finally you left for a new dwelling in a faraway alien land,

reeking and drenched in a foreignness so blatantly bland,

never fitting in, though always dreading being shut out,

singing paeans to hope scribbled in the sand.



You left your country, your home, your very own place of being,

you escaped Apartheid hell, into exile, far away from blinded eyes so unseeing,

and you held to a principle within, and you stood resolute,

till the shadows felt themselves in shame fleeing.



We salute you! And all like you, and the so many countless more,

into whose flesh the tyrant’s sword so cruelly tore.



We salute you!



You who fought at home and you who left to fight,

only to be murdered,

on a lonely, distant shore.



The Military Wing of the African National Congress



Plaque honouring Dulcie September in Paris, France

https://www.sahistory.org.za/people/dulcie-evon-september

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