Travel Tips

From a very early age I used to make up rhymes, and write poems.Some were put in the school magazine, but mostly I just wrote for myself. It was a way of expressing my feelings and emotions.
This attempt at a ballad was inspired by a short story I read. Ballads were one of the earliest verse forms that helped keep events alive for the common people.

'My lord, my lord,' the servant cried
'My lord, ' he cried in fear,
His eyes ,like glass , were open wide
As trembling he drew near.

'My lord, my lord, lend me your steed,
The one of cloudy grey
For I must leave this place at speed,
Death waits if I delay.'

Now calm yourself,' his master said,
'Why must you speed away?
I sent you to the market place; You go there every day.'

The servant took a long deep breath
His story to unfold, While all around , there was no sound.
the hall itself grew cold.

'Today the crowded market plae
Was full as full could be.
As people jostled face to face
An ancient crone struck me.

She struck me lightly on my arm
And when turned to look,
I knew at once she meant me harm
And to my heels I took.

To escape that evil place I ran,
To flee that woman, Death.
No w master, help me if you can
Your horse,' he gasped for breath.

'now wait a moment,' cried his lord,
'This woman that you saw.
How did you know she meant you harm?
Have you seen Death before?'

The servant whispered low but clear
With voice that shook with dread.,
'I know her, know her well, I fear.
We've met before, ' he said.

'It happened first some years ago
As I lay wracked with fever.
Six days and nights that passed so slow
I fought and tried to leave her.

She sat and stared me in the face
She sat and stared at me
With hollow caverns in the place
Her eyes were meant to be.'

'Your fever passed,' his lordship said
'You were not left for dead.'
'A month ago- just thirty days-
She came again,' he said.

'A madman bold let fly his knife.
Like an arrow swift it fled
Aimed at my heart, to take my life
To spill my life blood red.'

And as he threw, she gazed at me
She stared me in the face.
Look, master, look ,as you can see
The knife just missed the place.

The knife it missed and cut me here
Just inches from my heart
Lend me your horse, my master dear
To Samara I'll depart.'

The master lent his cloud grey horse
And watched the man depart
Along the dry and dusty road
With a sad and heavy heart.

The master, with a troubled mind
Left for the market place
To look and see if he could find
The strange old woman's face.

He looked on high, he looked on low
At woman, maid and child
To find a face he did not know
A stranger, awful, wild.

At last he saw an ancient crone
All dressed in black was she
He saw her standing all alone.
So, boldly up went he.

'Old woman, ' now the merchant spake,
'I wish to know the truth.
Why did you seize and try to take
My loyal serving youth?'

'My lord,' she said, 'The truth I'll tell,
The truth I'll tell to you
My hand flew up, I know it well,
But so your hand would do.

It was a movement of sirpris
II could scarce believe the sight-
Him- in Baghdad- before my eyes- It just did not seem right,

I made a date in years long fled
To meet your serving wight.
Samara was the place said,
And the time I chose- tonight!

When I was teaching at a Teacher Training Institute [ now Faculty of Education of University of Khartoum], I had to drive 12 miles into Khartoum, right across the town and to the far end of Omdurman. This often meant getting up and leaving the house before 7am. But it was enjoyable.

EARLY MORNING TRAVEL

Pylons, posts and trees
Flash past
Plunging into the horizon. And I press on
To meet them,
Hair streaming around me,
Roar of the wind in my ears. Hum of the wheels
On the shimmering tarmac.
Speed. Dun dust and thorns
Rush by
Kaleidoscopic drab images
And I press on
To escape them.
Opalescent light rises
To shimmer and sheen.
Dust clouds uplift
From the spinning wheels.
Speed.
Urbanization creeps slowly upon me. Commuters wait yawning beside the road. Heavy traffic thunders towards me. Change gear,
Slow speed
***********
Sudan has always been prone to power cuts lasting several hours. So this short poem describes my feelings on one such occasion.

Ode to the Electricity Company

Salt drops trickle down my neck
Membranes dry, craving water.
Warm glow spreads from head to toe:
Power cut.

Hair tickles, clothing clings.
Sweaty palms, sticky knees.
Thighs adhere and armpits reek.
Power cut.
**********
Creepy-crawlies are not my favourite creatures, but when a scorpion was caught in the beam of a torch, I was fascinated by its appearance.

The Scorpion

In the pale circle of light
His shadow magnified
His terrible , multiclawed shape
Stands motionless, entranced
A grey-green statue
A tiny miniature
Of opal wax.

He threatens with his tail
Green segments, crowned with thorn
Of fiery pain- or death.
As if by a puppet master’s thread unseen
His poisoned barb erects
And lowers, erects again,
Upright, orgasm of death.

The following poems were inspired by things that happened.
One cold winter's day I was watching when two students were introduced by a third, who then left.

SHADOWS

They met as strangers
Insular, remote
With icy handshakes
And from their frozen lips
Banalities, brief courtesies-
As strangers.
Their shadows met. His standing still
As his advanced
To join, unite
As if in consummation,
And when they parted
Did they part as strangers
Or did his shadow go
With her, and hers with him-
A united separation.

The next was inspired wen driving out of Khartoum before the Eid. Passing a graveyard a lone figure was cleaning up around a plot.

Scene at a graveyard before the Eid

Black rusty metal tags
Stand silent sentinels
To the simple heap,
A mound of wind blown dust,
Of him she mourns.

Alone she stoops,
A white enshrouded soul,
To gently scrape away
The piled up dust
From him she mourns.

Who is she, mother, child
Or widowed wife
What thoughts now haunt her mind,
And did she love him then
And does she now regret
The words unsaid?
The tender gestures held?
The silence that she kept
Submissive in her mind

********

I was once chastised for not visiting a neighbour who had had her daughter circumcised. I refused on principle. But in the end , I was dragged to the house to see the girl.

The Girl

Yesterday she ran
Barefoot across the sand,
Pigtails flying,
Dress, faded, flying
Above stick-thin legs.
Her shrieks of joy
Filling the air,
Tomboy without a care.

Today she lies
Legs tightly bound,
with henna and gold
On richly covered sheets,
Terrified to wake the pain
The burning, searing, throbbing pain
From the circumciser’s knife

*********
On a trip to the old town of Suakin we had to wait for a minibus to take us back to Port Sudan. It took ages to fill before we could move.

THE PASSENGER
Suakin 1994

The bus waits to fill
People in a hurry
Watching for the final fare.
There he comes
A youth
Shabby gibba, pantaloons
Blue waistcoat.
Hesitant he takes his seat.
Perched shyly among foreigners,
His gazelle-like eyes dart
Here and there, like a serpent’s tongue;
Soft black curls
Pierced with a four toothed
Wooden comb
Possessively he clutches to his chest
The sweat-grimed scabbard
With silver-chased hilt and pommel.
Foreign eyes admire the sword.
“Can I have a look?”
He grasps it even closer
Silky cheek caresses the dull silver,
The dark wool pom-pom.
What does he think?
Does he fear
That alien hands will snatch it,
Grasp the treasured heirloom
From the mists of time?

I once was recruited as a temporary rapporteur for a newly created NGo. The Team leader was from Iran and very enthusiastic. Some of the UNVs were from Bangladesh and elsewhere, but the majority were locals. As I took notes, I jotted down key words, which gave rise to this:

NGO –first meeting

From north, south, east and center
from different corners of the earth they come
to share experience
share, disseminate, donate assistance.
Words, and words, and words
Words repeated
Words of hope
Words of caution
Words
That take you to the grassroots
To range and pasture
Degradation
Desertification,
Rural development,
And still more words:
Maximization
words of participation
cooperation
and if you can prioritize your words
well I mean to say…

Sheikhships, nazirs, omdas
village councils
upazilla
Arabic. English, Bangladeshi
Words.
Words to give mention
Input, output
Tribes and traditions
Conflict , community
Development
Such a lot of words.
Ecology, environment
Automation
Exploitation [do be careful
Of your words].
Reseed, restock
Assess the feasibility
Make yourself redundant
With words
And words.
Sustainability
So the nomads
Khash beits and village chiefs
Will remain
When all you local
Social animators, UNVs
Return north, south
East, west, far and near
Back to the Centre
Of our world

Being in close contact with a wild animal can be a wonderful experience

THE FRIGHTENED FAWN

The frightened fawn
Nose twitching nostrils flared.,
On stiff unbending limbs
Slow inches forward;
Quivering to catch a scent
Of danger at her hand.
Hearts pounding at their nearness,
Civilized wondering eyes
are held
Entranced
In his wild limpid depths.

Intruding heavy steps
Snap the fragile silk
That holds their hearts suspended.
With toss of noble head
He speeds away.

With mental arms outstretched
In welcome she awaits
His tentative return,
While he advances, stops a moment
Then steps, betrayed, suspicious
Beyond her reach
While she just waits and hopes
Someday, unsought, unguided
With trust he will return.

****************************8

Haboobs are frequent in the summer months in SUdan , and even afterwards the sky may carry dust. I was driving to work one day when visibility was poor, and had this strange feeling

VISION

Through the ruddy haze
Of the all-pervading
All –embracing
Sweat-inducing
Dust
The metallic dome
If the mosque
Sends out an eerie gleam,
To the minaret
Like a finger pointing
Upwards
To salvation
Redemption
From the foretaste
Of this all-pervading
Sweat-inducing
Hell.

*************************

Everyone fasts during Ramadan in Sudan, so when I was younger I joined in too. It is essential to wake up before the dawn prayers to drink or even eat. This is how I felt

SUHOOR [Ramadan, 1978]

Two o’clock
I grope for the glass
Beside the bed,
Night-cool to the touch
And drink:
Sleepily sip the bittersweet tang
That trickles reluctant
Down my dusty throat
And fall back
To sleep.
Trying to catch elusive sleep
Grasping each moment
Savouring each second of slumber
Knowing that morning
Brings with it yawning
Tiredness, hunger and thirst
*************

I learned to swim after nearly getting drowned in Norway, and have loved swimming ever since, especially in pools ans tropical waters

PISCES AT THE POOL

Cool water lapping, splashing
Beckons an invitation
To plunge, to slip, to dive
Back into the womb
Back into the foetal waters
To be rocked and lapped
Lulled to dusk-grey sleep
On the womb of eternity.

Cool water lapping, splashing
Serenades the Fish child.
The elemental water baby
Responds to the call of the waves.
To surrender, submit the body
To the tingling caress
The buoyant embrace
Of the water of rebirth.

Once I watched my eldest daughter attend a function. I was so proud of the way she acted.

HIGH CIRCLES

You realize middle age is creeping onwards
When your once so tiny little daughter
All eyes, with silken coxcomb
Of raven curls
Walks with leonine pride
Into a gathering
Of UN diplomats
Sage professors
A throng of representatives
Destined to try and save our dying world.

See how she walks so proud
So confident to take her place
With ease

Wearing the very blouse and skirt
You wore
A mere handful of years before.