Blogs by Bahais

A compilation


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Family Poems (14/16): Memas

Everybody Means Something

Memas

After recently posting Unfinished Business in response to Sue Vincent’s book addiction post, and finally managing to finish Reading in the Park after only five decades, it struck me that it might be useful to post the family related poems, not in chronological order of composition, which is how they have appeared so far, but in a sequence that better reflects their chronological sequence in autobiographical time. I started last Monday with the first one after Unfinished Business, as that was posted so recently. The rest are following at the rate of a poem a day.

Memas

In Panchgani
in the cold front room
of the small cottage
which she didn’t own
she lay still
under the white sheet
beneath the crimson and green
of the freshly cut
half-opened rose
with her headscarf tight
against the breeze
from the open window
still in the pale flowered brown dress
she always wore for travelling

there…

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Sustain

WritersDream9

All Poetry Sustain https://pixabay.com/en/sunset-sky-gloomy-sky-541562/

Your darkness seeps into everything
Crawls into my consciousness and stings
Deflates my bright and shiny red balloon
I fall into the mold you’ve set too soon

Each day the sun shines in its glory
I try to write a fresh, new story
But like a cloud spilling out salty tears
That light is occluded by your fears

Like the sun, I continue to rise
Bursting through the hatred and the lies
Even when the darkness shrouds my own space
I will shine and of your clouds leave no trace

~~

© Carol Campbell

❤ ❤ ❤

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That selfie you took

the Book of Pain

upOff to wherever for whatever, but before you go—
snap that photo in the here and now, then post
it up to the fast receding, the there and when,
that touch that was, hope fading into forgot…

There we’ll remain with our firm, sure smiles,
left for our heirs to puzzle over, caught by us
in their time as were we in ours at the undertaking:
whatever did we think we were looking forward to?

This is what ties us, each generation, one to the other,
no one else understanding the race, going/going/gone,
that determined moment we thought so real (foolish us)
sent on ahead just the same. Almost as if by accident.
What was it I thought I was saying?

up

My apologies for such a long hiatus, but I’ve been working on a project for my Masters degree.

I was struck recently by an article discussing how fast we are loosing the World War 2 vets. In the United States, 16 million men and women were in uniform for that conflict, but now less…

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After the Kickstarter: Progress Report 1

Sorry I haven’t been able to keep up the reblogs in this space, have been busy working on a book!

Magic Fish Dreaming

IMG_0651

A big thank you to all those who supported Magic Fish Dreaming.

Since the kickstarter finished, Helene presented June and the team with a story board of all the illustrations in pencil outline, that she was proposing for the book. After some fruitful and constructive consultation this was approved for the go ahead.

Helene is now half way through completing these works in colour. The image above is a partial sneak peek of what she has been up to as she wants you all to be surprised by the book when it comes out. She will have completed her illustrations in May!

It has been a great process, seeing how Helene is interpreting the poems into art, and discussing the environment of Far North Queensland. Helene and June have both been enjoying these discussions.

Matilda the editor and June are checking the text to ensure it is entirely ready…

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Salt of the earth

the Book of Pain

Persians say that a salad is best made
with a miser to pour on vinegar,
a rich man to drizzle on oil
and a crazed man to heap on garlic.
What I got was a sweet man
who sprinkled everything he owned,
joyously, on everyone’s plate.

This story comes from a Bahá’í conference that took place in Bukavu, Rwanda, a town along the border with the Democratic Republic of the Congo, or what was then called Zaire. The main conference meal consisted of salad greens, roast goat, beans and manioc, the local term for the cassava tuber from which tapioca is derived. (Most Westerners don’t like manioc, but I developed a bit of a taste for it. But I’ll eat anything, so this was not surprising to my family.)

He was an elderly gentleman who, with a radiant heart, shared with us what we worried was just about all he owned…

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