two souls whole … … …

​our silences need not be jarred by talk, our journeys together being not a race, but rather a peaceful walk,

it is simple, just heart to heart, and soul to soul,

for that is all it takes to render our lives whole … …

memories of her … … …

yesteryear … … …

memory slips,
                        slides,
cascades,
                 through the blurred veil of time,
        sifting through memories,

of you,
            your loveliness ablaze,

sweeping across meadows,
                  my stranded heart still in flames,
                 the furnace burning bright,
                          raging in the darkness of this night,
                  coaxing nostalgic yearning,

over years left behind,
             between thoughts of kisses entwined,
                
                 and still,
                 and yet,

this heart may never forget,
           the caress of your voice,

breezing between today,
           last week,

all the drifting yesteryears,
                     lost in your deepest eyes,

even as days turn to night,

even as time continually flies,

scattering pieces of my soul,
              hither and thither,
             knowing it may never be, again,
whole,
           ah! but the memories persist,
as summer begins to wither,
            you are all i remember you to be,

between the wild rose,
        amidst the thorns,

bathed in dawn’s dew,

I live,
        I breathe,
                        I savour,

the sweetest thoughts,

of you, only you … … …
           

the perennial exile … … …

fitting in,
acceptably hushed,

alienation photoshopped, airbrushed …

at home ?

not this rolling stone,
bruising my rattled self to the bone,

enveloped by walls,
as each evening falls,

shivering as desolate morning dawns,

painted smile,
shushing rising bile,

my fatigued soul yawns,
a being who fawns:

the perennial exile … … …

Banksy

matters …

matters …

anaesthetised tongues,

wag,
numbed into complicit silence,

while all that matters,

slinks away,

mattering not,

not today …

The Shade of the Baobab …

The Shade of the Baobab …

the wandering soul rests,

a Baobab tree offering sanctuary,

the South African sun,

ablaze …

the wanderer gives thanks to the ancestors,

a moment of respite from the unending journey,

sifting through the dust,

divining the road ahead,

a time to reflect,

on all the miles lost to the sieve of time,

and,

on all the paths that have yet to be tread.

http://simple.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Baobab

Shrapnel …

Shrapnel …

the journeys have been tiresome,

pock-marked with wounds,

raw,
open,

the silent stab of nagging shrapnel,

of emotions,

shredded,
discarded,

stripping my soul bare,

naked,
exposed,

to the winds of unborn tomorrows …

the journey continues,

staggering,
hither and thither,

the self unsure,

gutted,

a heart,
a mind,

a long forgotten kiss,

like salt on burnt skin,

shrapnel embedded deep within,

the recesses of a desolate heart,

a desert of nothingness ahead,

but for that mirage,

a faint hazy oasis,

where I finally see you,

your eyes a vision of distilled truth …

“who are you?”, you ask of me,

“I am not yet him”, I say,

“I have yet to become me” …

Words …

Words …

he said that he would love me forever.

he whispered sweet nothings.

he said that it would endure.

he said all of this,
and all of that,

words that soothed,

cajoled,
promised,

the sun and the stars.

all said,

he said far too much …

Port of Call

Port of Call

 

 

Barefoot on a talcum beach,

 

alone, not lonely,

 

with the breath of the ocean a caressing balm,

soothing pained memories away,

to the swaying of a solitary palm.

 

 

Barefoot on a talcum beach,

 

alone, not lonely,

 

feeling the brushing away of all past turmoil,

on a quest for solace, ever so hard to find,

yet comforted by the crashing of the waves,

as the tide cleanses all pain,

and leaves despair far, far behind.

 

 

Barefoot on a talcum beach,

 

alone, not lonely,

 

drenched in a sea-breeze of mist,

that hushes the ache of bygone moons,

tasting the salty tang on my lips,

as the burnished sun,

over the distant horizon,

swoons,

 

and dips.

 

 

Barefoot on a talcum beach,

 

alone, not lonely,

 

searching, ever searching,

for a slice of solitude,

as memory bids a final adieu,

reaching under the sea so vast,

and seeking comfort in the depths,

while embracing,

the tomorrows to come,

wishing that they be true.

 

 

Barefoot on a talcum beach,

 

alone, not lonely,

 

seeing my truths drown,

as they slip beneath the turquoise waters,

 

feeling my heart ablaze,

with a passion that rarely falters.

 

 

Barefoot on a talcum beach,

 

alone, not lonely,

 

yet knowing that I am home at long last,

wishing the waves would wash away,

the defences that once stood,

like an impregnable wall.

 

 

Barefoot on a talcum beach,

 

alone, not lonely,

 

I have found, at long last,

 

my final port of call.

NOSTALGIA: My Family: A Historical Journey Through the Seasons – Part 2 by Afzal Moola, Johannesburg, South Africa

NOSTALGIA: My Family: A Historical Journey Through the Seasons – Part 2 by Afzal Moola, Johannesburg, South Africa.

The Paths we Weave

The Paths we Weave …

Walking alone,

on these meandering paths this life weaves,

weathering the nudges and the tugs of destiny and of fate,

I have walked alone for many a mile,

but not today,

for today,

I weave through alleyways of solitude,

rinsing my cobwebbed memories,

seeking to steer my path,

gently,

so that this pathway of life may lead me to you,

where my only hope is that I am not too late,

as I place my soul at your hearts’ gate …

In your Eyes (scribble 1)

In your Eyes …

Walking along these bending alleys of life,

the promise of meeting a fellow-traveller was deemed far too remote,

and so,

I shut down my heart,

severing all loves’ ties,

but then again,

that was before,

before I gazed into the ocean of your fiery, gentle, irresistibly enticing eyes …

Life, love, & sweetly aching blues …

life, love, & sweetly aching blues …

caught red-handed,

stealing moments,

a mere nanosecond,

of hastily borrowed time …

I stand accused,

of a past,

pockmarked by shrapnel skidding off the many alleyways of life …

I plead guilty,

naked and stripped bare,

engaged in a duel with destiny and time,

wasting,

&

wasting away,

scribbling verses in the sand,

devoid of an iota of life’s maddening,

&

Irresistibly seductive rhyme …

Choosing to be Human…

We may choose,

to trudge down life’s pathways alone,

barricading our fragile hearts,

behind ramparts of stone…

We may choose,

to stow our emotions away,

shielding our weary souls,

from the promises of a new day …

We may choose,

to never be hurt again,

safely enveloping our fatigued selves,

tucked away from loves’ pleasures and its pain …

or,

we may choose to be human,

leaping into the cauldron of countless unborn tomorrows,

inviting loves’ soothing balm,

and perhaps,

caressing  away a few of our lonesome sorrows …

and so,

we shall choose to be human,

lowering the defences hewn from bitter experiences pummelled with pain,

as we welcome love into the deepest recesses of our being,

nourishing each other while gently letting go of yesteryears’ stinging pain. 

Seducing my Soul

caressing the seductively swaying marmalade roses,

teasing the stealthily approaching morn,

the smell of you lingers,

on,

and on,

as I lie awake and allow my vagabond thoughts to wander,

to the thoughts of you, seducing my soul entire,

as I sat,

and as I basked,

intoxicated,
teased,
raging,
transfixed,

and warmed,

by the healing glow,

that embraces your being entire …

A Grand Unified Theory

A Grand Unified Theory…

… Scraping our knees,
as fluid time flows,

months and years and days and weeks,

loving, living, cooking, caring,

our pain, our desires, our simple wishes,

lie neatly tucked away,

behind the clean linen in the guest-bedroom cupboard.

Whispering to ourselves, bleeding to feel alive, feeling a cold, distant cloak of invisibility shrouding our screaming silences.

A tender glance, a few comforting words,
remind us that we are still human,

picking away at still-raw sores, pacing around in our minds, searching for yet to be opened doors,

craving simple warmth, a kind word, a knowing nod, a shared tear,

holding each other, close by, yet not near,

grappling within, without,

at the gnawing fear,

I may have loved you too much,

my phantom love,

always present,

still you always, always, always,

manage to disappear…

My Heart is with You

My Heart is with You…

Far too much has been said,
too many miles have been tread,

it looks like the end of the line,
keep it safe, that old heart of mine…

My Family: A Historical Journey Through the Seasons. Part Five – Thoughts about Exile, Home, Identity, Belonging

My Family: A Historical Journey Through the Seasons.

Part Five – Thoughts about Exile, Home, Identity, Belonging.

This scribble is going to be a rambling, not too coherent piece all about my thoughts on identity, belonging, exile, and about ‘home’.

So, my dear friends, I invite you to accompany me, with sufficient forewarning I hope, on this scribbled ramble…

‘Home’

Looking back now, I can say that I grew up with two very separate yet entwined ideas of ‘home’ – ‘home’ being both the idealised country of my parents, who spoke of ‘home’, which meant South Africa, as being the place where ‘family’ was an umbrella of safety and a source of comfort, and the other reality of what ‘home’ meant was the reason I was born in exile in the first place, the country that had become a pariah of the world, with its brutal, oppressive system of Apartheid racial-segregation.

Now this may seem odd from today’s historical vantage point, but back when I was growing up in India and Egypt, there was a definite sense that we would never see ‘home’ again.

The hopes and aspirations with which my parents lived by, and probably had to live by, was that freedom would come in our lifetime. But a lifetime can be a long time, so there was also the possibility that we may never see the end of Apartheid, and this fear, which I think is shared by exiles, refugees, and all displaced human beings, was always just below the surface.

This ever-present and often repressed fear was fuelled by the deaths of fellow exiles who passed on before South Africa’s transition from Apartheid state to democratic nation took place in 1994.

I recall an old ANC comrade, an elderly man in his 60’s, who lived with us in Cairo in the early 1980’s, and to whom I became quite close, who later took ill and passed away in a Cairo hospital.

I was 8 years old at the time, and even though my parents did not tell me that ‘uncle’ had passed away, I knew it. I sensed it from his deteriorating health earlier, and from the grave expressions my parents wore for months after ‘uncle’ ‘left’.

My parents carried their own feelings of guilt and pain, of leaving behind a young son and daughter (my siblings Azad and Tasneem whom I did not grow up with) in South Africa, who grew up with my maternal grand-parents in Johannesburg. My parent’s guilt and pain never left them, and I remember my mother as she lay bedridden with Motor-Neurone Disease almost 14 years after freedom still carrying the anguish of the separation of parent from child.

My father still carries the pain with him, and I think even more so today because of the difficulties and emotional minefields that he has to navigate through knowing that he did not share his two eldest children’s childhood, and only now, after all these decades, are the relationships being strengthened, and that too is still a work in progress.

I can only imagine the pain, emotional trauma, anguish and heartbreak that my sister Tasneem, and my brother Azad felt growing up knowing that their parents were out in the world, yet remaining separated from them.

It is a legacy of pain, of homes and of families split up and separated that remains with us today, of Apartheid’s continuing brutalisation of South Africans.

These complex and conflicting issues that we as family, and we as a nation have to deal with may still yield some measure of peace, if that is at all possible, given the weight of the past.

I have so much more to say, dear reader, but it can wait for later.

I can say that my experiences growing up here, there and everywhere have been a convoluted scattering of disjointed places, of half-remembered faces and of many a restless night spent contemplating the questions of identity, home, belonging and of what ‘anchors’ a person.

Perhaps there are reasons for the times when that vagabond exile blood gets restless and that itch, that impatience, that urge to move, to flee, to rejoin the nomadic community surfaces.

And perhaps, there are reasons too, for my ability to suppress the sometimes fiery urge to trade quiet suburban stasis for the unknown path of the unnamed exile.

TO BE CONTINUED?

splinters & fragments

splinters, fragments
of
thoughts, emotions,

fragment, and
splinter
my
emotions, my thoughts

Walking with Hope

Walking with Hope

I walk with hope,
at long last, I walk with promise,

I no longer crawl,
scurrying between wounded moments,

I stand tall again,
at long last, I sing a peaceful refrain,

sheltered by your love,
I take solace from life’s bitter rain,

comforted by your warmth,
I soar free, high above the empty plain.

I walk with hope,
at long last, I walk with promise,

I stand upright,
feeling the radiance of your gentle light,

and I thank you for taking me in,
I am yours, and your breath spreads life,

deep in my heart, my soul, my mind,
you are the love that I have searched so long to find…

it all comes back to you

I don’t know why,
but you have endured,

in the recesses of my memory,

filling in the crevasses of all these passing years,

cementing my will,

forging my spirit out of the cauldron of molten loss,

I do not know why,

but it always keeps coming back,

to you…

work in progress. like life

She winked, and smiling with her eyes,
kissed my parched lips,

I could not return her kiss,

and though the years have spun their cobwebs,

fashioning vacuums out of forgotten dreams,

It is that kiss that I most miss.

Tonight, I lie awake,
lathered in layered memories,

of love lost, and of love gained,

of open skies,
and of rains crashing through my weak rhymes,

that have strained,
across the vast emptiness,

seeking absolution,
for my emotional crimes…

(This Scribble is a Work in Progress. Just Like Life)

In Plain English

In Plain English

Waking up, outside,

far from comforting warmth,

seeking a home,
stripped bare,

your identity trailing far behind,

hoping, clinging, clutching,

at strands of withered life,

searching, forever on the trail,

of a peace so elusive to find

The Path to the Road

The Path to the Road …

… I have walked, barefoot,
the gravel splintering my soul,

I have crawled, naked,
the thorns piercing my heart,

I have fallen, broken,
the rain slicing my mind,

I have stood, bearing,
the weight on my twisting back,

I have reached,

finally,

the path I must travel,

to reach the road that shall lead me to you …

The Nearest Exit

The Exit …

… discarding memories,
suffocating in nostalgia’s throttling grip,

I flee, moment by moment,
away from the now,

seeking, yearning,

chasing phantom clouds of promise,

coveting shrouded whispers of hope,

seducing empty vessels of belonging,

I flee, moment by moment,
away from the now,

seeking, yearning,

lost, alone, torn,

slowly crawling to the nearest exit

ctrl. alt. del.

Ctrl. Alt. Del.

Catatonic, I lie,
my emotions frozen,

specks of dust swept beyond the trails,

of nameless pathways that could not be chosen.

Numbed, I stand,
all feeling shattered,

like dandelion seeds adrift in the wind,

shuffling between fragile clouds,

pieces of my being appear carelessly scattered.

Yearning, I wait,
for a new day to dawn,

hustling through crooked bends,

scampering from regret to regret,

frantically stitching together a fabric,

of a life worn down and painlessly torn

The False Dichotomy of My Descent

Falling,
beyond the precipice,
into this gaping chasm.

Numbness ensues,

whirling emptiness,

swirling around and around,

in the recesses of my mind,

as it plummets,

in silent freefall.

My choices are stark,

hit rock bottom,
eyes open,

splitting into fragments,

left strewn across the canvas of loss.

Or,

shutting my eyes,

descending into oblivion,

exhaling as the valley of sorrow reaches up,

claiming me as its own.

But,

I choose to glide,

floating on thermals of hope,

settling deep in the bowels,

of this desolate grave,

to begin anew,

free from the fiction of truth,

to live, to love, once more,

no longer an accomplice,

and never again, a slave.

I Stand, Alone

I stand, alone.

Scratching for my truths,
peeling away the veneer,

I stand, alone, before this
impregnable cliff so sheer.

Cocooned in my solitary shell,
wrenching a smile from a tear,

I stand, alone, a little odd,
and definitely quite queer.

I stand, alone.

You & I

You and I.

You.

Your heart blazed,
with a warmth of spirit,

soothing,

alluring,

soaked in truth.

Your smile burned,
branding me permanently,

gentle,

tender,

enveloping my being.

Your love was complete,
from the depths of your soul,

unsaid,

yet fierce,

bathed in silent knowing.

Your dreams were poetic,
fluttering in the afternoon breeze,
infused with the distilled essence of rhyme.

I.

I squandered your generosity of spirit.

I vainly discarded your priceless poetry.

Now I stand,

alone,

empty,

desolate,

wasting away,

rotting inside, day by day.

The Canvas of Night

The Canvas of Night

Stars like sprinkled sugar,
lay strewn across the canvas of night,

…

enthralled by the wonder of the cosmos,
my dreams take to the heavens in effervescent flight,

…

I bathe in the beauty, soaked in sublime delight,
absorbed in moments of bliss, transfixed by the serene sight.

…

Stars like sprinkled sugar,
lay strewn across the canvas of night,

…

and my being is infused with feelings of hope,

for even in darkness I find the sprinkled sugar of hope’s light.

…

note: special thanks to one of my heroes, the late Dr. Carl Sagan, for making science accessible to younger me, many, many moons ago.