Preserving music…and comedy

January 21, 2012
Art, life, Love, Poetry, religion
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There is something about music which makes it an instantly accessible, universal art form; above all others in its ability to resonate instantaneously within human hearts. Poetry, paintings, plays and films all have their sacred place, but music has its own ethereal and eternal beauty. While other art forms are, rightly or wrongly, believed to require a certain level of intellectual cultivation, music can reach us all at any time.

In the religion I subscribe to I am told that absolutely nothing will survive Armageddon with the exception of human souls. Yet something in me struggles to believe God will want to destroy the spiritually cleansing sounds that some of His creation conjured up through blood, sweat and  tears

Yes, I can imagine Him saying be-gone to beautiful valleys, rivers and mountain ranges when the time comes, but not, surely not, to (certain pieces of) music.

I am fully expecting humankind to be resurrected to the sound of Dear Prudence, by The Beatles.

Then, I believe, all entrants of Heaven will be given a special back to back screening of all episodes of Fawlty Towers.

After all, that is what life is about, right? Music and tasteful humour: the roots from which all love stems.

A symptom is she

January 20, 2012
identity, life, Love, Poetry
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Close my eyes and try to sleep but yawns become sighs

wondering if my secret was exposed when she looked at me with those
tap running eyes, a water like glance. Tried to hold it; slipped out my hands.

But for ever in this mind it’s framed with either ignorance or faith to be blamed

Caught off guard when we first met, and I jumped to visions of the future

crash landing in regret of the past for not truly making most of the present

as it was back then.

Dressed in black as if she was at the funeral of my dreams.

All doors were closed

until a smile unlocked a beam of light.

She tried to resist with a heart of some kind of metal

only to discover I was magnetised

but the sweat of my intense grip

let her slip.

.

Then, fortnightly frictions of five minute meetings

ignoring attraction, taking a beating

from this heart of mine

in this pantomime

Of monologues,

and echoes of fear I hear as applause.

 

 

She looked not once my way as I

half heartedly tried

to make her.

Thought in the imagination of another

I was safer.

 

Then that evening, out of politeness we sat together

and I got more than what I prayed for

that’s what I have my faith for.

But my heart spoke, not my mind, I had to escape

from her gentle intensity.

Someone to work with and talk to

not a body as a playground my passion

could walk through.

Made my excuses and left

before my faith fell victim to theft

Then from a distance that gaze I felt

and read each letter of every word it spelt

and put in on my reading list for another

time.

 

Protecting piety, my most foolish crime?

Two months later re-appeared the list

by then illiterate was I

And no books on the shelf again, why?

I’ll do anything to avoid feeling this way again

even if I have to take the devil as my best friend.

 

 

Only through her memory is how I now see the world

her thick brown hair like calligraphic swirls

opening paradise with her smile of flying doves

in congregation.

 

 

As the memory fades I plunge too deep into self…

 

 

Just need something or someone to call my own

Like a mortgage on a house, I’m just a( )lo(a)ne

In a holocaust of idleness I’ve killed too much time

And now, sentenced is my mind

To imprisonment within four cold walls

Where I fall asleep to the sound of wake up calls.

Nothing replaces conversation

January 18, 2012
erotica, Love, Poetry, sexuality
3 Comments

I could write you a song

to the melody of your orgasm

 

And make the lyrics a mystery

no scholar of love could fathom

 

You could question them

with every panting breath

 

And every bead of sweat

as I relish in your depth

 

But nothing replaces conversation in a park,

be it autumn or spring

 

We can play hide and seek

with my heart between your thighs

 

And I’ll play dumb and foolish

searching ‘til sunrise

 

But nothing replaces fully clothed conversation

in an art gallery or a library’s cafe

 

We could strip naked,

perform the Holy Pilgrimage,

 

And do something Beautiful,

like God’s invisible image

 

Or we could watch pornography together

a sign of the times

 

But we are blissful hearts,

surely not disturbed minds

 

Still, nothing replaces conversation

with strawberries, honey and cream for dessert

Massacre

January 18, 2012
Art, identity, Poetry
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In the gallery the lady lay. Crowds from across the globe

for the greatest exhibition on earth came…

“Gentlemen with ladies and those pitiful ones without.

Children, dogs and butterflies, for it is

a hot summer’s day with windows open…”

The  Curator continued…

“I as surgeon will cut open this chest and show you the greatest installation

ever

known

to

humankind”

A few moments later the detached heart pounded in his right hand and all onlookers vomited

out

their

own.

Piles of beating hearts and dead bodies massacred in the name of Art.

On the (b)rink

January 16, 2012
identity, life, Poetry, Society
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He who laughed never, but often cried        

on the rink skated not, but did slide

 

He who had three sleepless nights

came barefoot, fell flat on the ice

 

 

Disturbed by this sight, the parents cried “stop him”!

and children laughed as he slid on his bottom

 

Lethargic and drained yet still he tried

to pull himself up, but deep inside

 

A force dark and dangerous pulled him down

the other skaters, once gathered around

 

Now dispersed, went on their merry way

Lovers and friends, skating happily

 

Every so often, in their way he’d get

on cold ice, he’d break out in sweat

 

Now he lay in the centre of the rink

not a movement, not a blink

 

Each child’s giggle, each lovers’ kiss

meant his cries went amiss

 

He yelled and screamed, repeatedly: “Help”!

As the ice under him alone began to melt

 

Then one woman who at him once frowned

Drawing by Patsy McArthur- www.patsymcarthur.com

Shed a tear when she heard he drowned

 

Puzzled she was, drown how could he?

The melted ice was a puddle, not a sea

 

How would it feel, if ,as a stranger it hurt her?

To lose one loved to an invisible burglar

Life in a happy heart

January 15, 2012
identity, life, Love, Poetry
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Never thought life could be

as beautiful as this;

such bliss and warmth

in an icy loneliness

 

Every degree dropping

accompanied by a tear

Every eighteen months I wish

Someone like her was here

 

Of my heart

an ice rink she has made

digging in deep

with her skate’s blade

 

her and all my bound lovers

across it in freedom glide

their every move

cutting me up inside

 

Do I imagine it all?

A pain self inflicted?

I am “the victim” and

the criminal to be convicted

 

Sentence me please

To life in a happy heart

Because I’m finding joy in misery

And it’s scary when it gets this dark

An unexpected lesson from “straight to airport” romance novels

January 14, 2012
life, Society, identity, lesson of the day, Image
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I was at an airport. I was tired. I was alone. Looking around, my fellow passengers were all in  
groups and couples. I could have forged a conversation with one of them, as I usually do, but I did not want to force politeness out of their souls with my pliers of social desperation.

Never one to let my mind go numb, I had three minutes to decide how to occupy myself for an hour in mid air. Newspaper? No. I’d read it all before- Europe is burning, commentators are still banging on about last summer’s riots; and someone killed someone.

Magazine? No, I wanted to read something, not look at adverts for fashion labels.

So a book it was. Footballer’s autobiography? No. Footballer’s wife’s memoirs ghost written by an illiterate high school drop out? No, didnt wnt SMS txt tlk. Footballer’s pet dog’s memoirs? Slightly more interesting but not quite what I wanted.

6O seconds for boarding! I wanted fiction. Something light, different. I only had a few pounds in my   pocket so I headed to the bargain bin. Chick lit novels reduced to 99p. Well, I did need some romance in my life. I stretched out my hand, then pulled back reprimanding myself. Did I want to be laughed at by fellow passengers? No, but who was going to see me? Only strangers. Subscribed to an uninhibited life as I am, I could not let that bother me.

Still, after purchasing it, it felt necessary to rip off the covers, just in case. As lacking in self-consciousness as I am, I did not want to be seen reading a book with: Relationship problems? Life in a mess? Not to worry…Nadia knows best  scrawled in pink on the cover.

So I read away and surprisingly I enjoyed it. It was not Dickens, it was not Wilde, but it sufficed, just. However, with each page I turned, the sloppily compiled book printed on cheap paper began falling apart. By the time I reached page 31, the glue of the spine had been unpeeled, catalysed by my violent regard for my own perceived reputation.

Air turbulence kicked in. My nervous, sweaty grip- nurtured by the corner of eye stares the woman to my left was giving my book, with a certain wry smile- gave way to a panicky sudden jerk and up in the air went 439 pages of loosely bound pages. Down at my feet came approximately 400 loose leaves of paper.

So much for tying to be discreet. Now half the passengers on the plane knew what I was reading.

45 minutes remained. What could I do? With nothing to read, I attempted to put those aforementioned pliers to use but the pompous, preened women beside me would have none of it; and she had a point. “That’s what happens when you vandalise books young man; I saw what you did in the shop”, her pointed, raised eyebrows acting as the exclamation marks on the page of her face. With that, she half turned her back on me (EasyJet flights leave little room for manoeuvre).

Lesson learned: trying too hard to be “acceptable” leads to social isolation and embarrassment. Or should that be: men should never read romance novels… in public?

The Beauty of You

January 13, 2012
erotica, identity, Islamic, life, Poetry, religion
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Some go to Mecca, some go to Rome                          

The particles of air some fine comb

For the secrets of our existence

lust for mystery, no resistance

 

I come to you

to worship God above

Your eyes, the Almighty’s greatest architecture

Your body like a Mosque

A wonder of the world,

I’ll wash before I enter

Taking great care in this special place

Spending, in devoted worship, many passionate nights

 

I’ll bow my head in a place sacred

Delicate and soft

In search of my crescent moon

And star

And meet all God’s Prophets

Giving their glad tidings

To those who

Love you right

 

You are my way to Paradise,

Hell is the self left alone

for too many nights they say

And there is no sin in avoiding Hell

 

Only in the sanctuary of your body

Can I release my soul

To ascend the fate written for me

with God’s grand pen

Only a woman’s love,

can save the souls of men

Dead flowers all around?

January 12, 2012
family, life
2 Comments

 One week prior to leaving London for my Christmas holidays I was akin to what geologists say Saudi oil reserves could be in 15 years; drained. Being a work from home freelancer means you have to fight with mountainous energy to maintain a barely adequate social life. Not having the energy to do this I reclined into reclusiveness and decided to make up for human interaction by excessively decorating my room with flowers... (Well, they are a form of life after all, so they’d give me some company).

Being a human being, or as they say in Arabic, an insaan: one who was made to forget, I thought not at all of the reality that these flowers would die whilst I went on holiday for three weeks in a few days time. Living in your own world does not facilitate forethought, if anything, the opposite: incessant reminiscing.

Home I went. Family I met. Love I experienced. Across the generational spectrum, I soaked up the wisdom of my grandparents and enjoyed the adventure of understanding my fun loving teenage cousins. Something that cannot be replaced by a bouquet of flowers.

Returning back to London this week, forgetting I recently had an impulsive affair with eleven bouquets of flowers, I opened my bedroom door and saw this…

I sat, scratched my head and held back a tear. I had neglected something that should have been preserved for as long as possible. The old adage: don’t start what you can’t finish sprang to mind. Looking around the world, I wonder what else I, we, are neglecting that we should be preserving? Are there dead flowers all around?

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