FIREWORKS:

I hate funfairs, ferias, fiesta, flamenco, fandango, & yes, FIREWORKS. I am considered a party-pooper, agua-fiestas, a damp squibb, by friends & family, & you know what? I do not b....y well care. So I am going into the Kalahari desert of my childhood tonight to celebrate the 5th of November. It is sunset, the shadows are growing over the scrubby bush casting purple swathes over the desert. Meerkats peep, ever curious at our passing, hyenas slink, not daring, giraffes look down on us with distain, & we plod on until we get to our destination, a Bushman camp. By the time we arrive sunset has handed over her baton to the silky black night, the stars, diamonds chips blinking & winking, the moon resplendent in her pregnancy, casting an eerie glow over her domain below. We are greeted by these ancient folk & join their circle around a scarlet fire that spits golden sparks & flames to the heavens tauntingly. The ancient bronze-skinned folk begin to chant & stamp with their hard old feet upon an even older, harder earth, stirring up dust that envelops us in an age -old embrace. The chanting gets louder, the Kalahari dust is stirred, the earth is converted into a million drums to convey our message to the mighty sky above us, to please send rain, Pula. When the heavens bow to receive our message, the chants soften, the stamping turns to a silent shuffling, the fire calms, silence reigns. We sit with our eyes trained on the sky where we see shooting stars dart across the firmament, Venus blinks at her subjects who shine & sparkle, & the moon smiles, as only a mother can. Around us we see hidden eyes in the surrounding bush. Fireflies & lions eyes, eyes of many beasts, of gold, red, & sharp green, ever watching, staying unseen. We hear the roars, snuffles, screams & grunts, of those hunted, & of those who hunt. A gourd is handed round for us to drink, & as I sip the wild honeyed tea of these wonderful folk, the heavens compete with the beasts in its roar, & our prayers answered, it begins to pour- Pula. Far better than a Fireworks display that resembles a Benidorm bazaar.

HIBERNATING.

Everyone I know, myself included, feels like hibernating at the moment, to hide from our quirks & quibbles, aches & angst’s, so I´m going deep into the bowels of the earth today. I walk through a Winter forest, hard of frost, scarce of bloom, misty & grey in evening´s murky gloom. Trees loom, pointing accusing fingers as I pass. My eyes down, together with my spirits, I plod on with icy determination until I meet the old tree. At the base of its ancient trunk, a small door creaks open & a small being beckons me in with a long pointed finger. I lose all notion of where I am, who I am, & of my size, as I go through the door & follow this wizened little gnome with his swaying lantern. After walking through what seems like miles of winding corridors, we arrive at a clearing, a little room smelling of pine & herbs, beautifully furnished. Polished wooden floors glimmer in the flickering firelight. Beautiful mats upon which an array of small animals lie, warming themselves in front of the homely fireplace, rabbits, squirrels, hedgehogs. I´m handed a small leaf-plate of oaten biscuits & an acorn- cup of forest-fruit tea, pungent with cloves & cinnamon. The little gnome´s wife with rosy cheeks & pointy ears, & bells tinkling on her minute shoes, smiles at me & tells me that I must not take the outer world too seriously. This dear little couple gave me their hospitality, their good wishes & their wisdom, & escorted me back to the front door where I bid them farewell. I started my way back home through the cold, dark forest, but now without the quibbles, quirks, aches & angst’s.

SOWETO NIGHT (written during south Africa’s apartheid)

It was a black night, as black as hell,

Every black man´s soul as deep as a well,

It was the night Soweto burned,

The night the white man turned,

The black man wearily sighed,

The black woman sadly cried,

The black child cunningly lied,

The night Soweto died.



سوویٹو کی رات

(جنوبی افریقہ کے نسلی عصبیت کے دورمیں لکھی گئی )



یہ ایک تاریک رات تھی ، جہنم کی طرح اندھیری

ہر سیاہ فام کی روح ایسی گہری ،جیسے کوئی کنواں

یہ وہ رات تھی جب سوویٹو جلا یا گیا

اس رات سفید فام واپس پلٹ گئے

سیاہ فام مرد نےاداس آہ بھری

سیاہ فام عورت افسردگی سے رو دی

مگر، سیاہ فام بچے نے کمال ہوشیاری سے جھوٹ بولا

اس رات سوویٹو مر گیا



شاعرہ: Sue Read-Lobo

KING´S DAY:

We got up at dawn & walked to the lighthouse as the sun began to rise, & what homage to the three kings it was. The sky, swirls of gold, scarlet, purple, royal blue, & deep pinks. The sea, a deep, dark blue velvet cloth, edged with white ermine spume, protecting the cold white stone throat of her majesty´s coastline, giving way to the bejeweled, twinkling lights of the necklace bedecking the delicate royal cyan nape of Albir´s bay. No greater gift could be given. No greater pleasure could be received. Thank you. Happy kings day.

THE DAY:

As I walk out of my front door into the new morning, the little brown owl bade me good day as he closed his sleepy eyes against the golden glow of the fresh dawn. Night´s dew teases my bare toes as I dance across the icy grass. The sun shines upon my cheek, the breeze dances with my hair, teasing & taunting, before running off to play with the jealous trees. seven squirrels scuttled, three rabbits rambled,  bonny blackbirds bobbed, hopeful hoopoes drank at my birdbath, & two red kites hovered & landed by the shimmering swimming pool, where a shy fox had snuck down from the surrounding sierra gelada mountain  to steal a sip before human eyes laid themselves upon the dawn, still heavy in the presence of Morpheus. The early morning temperatures already in their twenties, & the world shines with a promise that has nothing to do with anything else that is not nature alone. it is winter, it is the centre of Benidorm, Spain. Who would think that a day could be so perfect in these circumstances? It just goes to show you, that miracles are all around us.