Having enjoyed writing the poem In a Bay off Old Muharraq I was moved to write another. This one is a little light-hearted in a creepy kind of way. And of course the opening lines take off from Coleridge’s Ancient Mariner
It is an ancient pearl diver
Who rises from the sea
Not pale like other ghosts you know
But dark as dark could be.
The seaweeds and barnacles
Clung to his hair and skin
The oysters grew around his waist
And he seemed to have a fin
At last! Thanks to Robin Barratt’s hard work, dedication and determination the much awaited anthology – My Beautiful Bahrain is on the threshold of its launch.
Check it out at: http://www.facebook.com/events/229007373867737/
And read more about it on Bahrain Writers’ Circle website
The anthology, to which I am proud to have been a contributor has, “lots of fascinating personal ‘life’ stories, quite a few tourist-type information and fact based contributions, some wonderful poetry, an occasional piece of fiction (set on the island) and a mixture of other diverse and captivating prose, with fifty contributions from forty writers from fifteen countries (almost 300 pages), My Beautiful Bahrain is both varied and unique, and an undeniably indispensable guide for travellers and visitors to the island, as well as a ‘must-read’ book for people living here, doing business here, or just interested in what life is like living on this tiny, tiny island in the Arabian Gulf.
The aims and goals of this book are to show the world that; firstly, there are a great many terrific and talented writers on the island that most definitely should be read and heard and secondly, for most people here, Bahrain is a wonderful place to live!
The call for contributions for this book was simple; to write about life here with no other – or hidden – agenda. The only conditions for contributing were that there was to be no political or religious criticism and writers must keep in mind the title: My Beautiful Bahrain.”
The hardcopy paperback, retailing at BD5/- is now available in Bahrain at Jashanmal Bookstores and it can also be bought on Amazon.
Somewhat inspired by a young friend’s magnificently emotional American Indian poem I have been reading rather a lot of Amerindian / First Nations poetry. Inevitably, as far as subject matter goes, I came across an old favourite – The Song of Hiawatha. I’ve always loved the ebb and flow of this poem’s trochees and the tetrameter. So, using the trochaic meter of Longfellow’s Song of Hiawatha, this piece was created at that inspired hour of 1:00a.m. Here it is – Bahraini in theme and yet western in structure:
In a bay off old Muharraq
Lies an ancient wooden Sambuk
That still goes out on moonless nights
Searching for th’ eternal light
And the master of the Sambuk
Who’s the master of that Sambuk?
A ghost, a wraith, a memory
Singing songs like Fidjeri.
A while ago at our active and challenging Bahrain Creative Writers workshop we were asked to write down a memory. And the following is my exercise:
How can I, who have seen so many summers, sunsets and sunrises, laughter and tears pick one memory from my kaleidoscopic life to write about? I pick one and the kaleidoscope turns bringing together different shards of glass, creating a new memory altogether, not the one I first sat down to write about. But I must hold this magical mutability still or else it will all break down and like this “too solid flesh may melt and thaw and resolve itself into a dew.”
The following poem was written for a competition for amusing verse. The challenge was to write it within 30 lines. Well I wrote the poem and then took so long to send it in that I missed the deadline. So I thought I’d share it with all those who visit FictionPals. Enjoy!
Dai was an Aries Cat, you know,
She had no other names to show
She didn’t have three as Eliot said,
Nor as was sung by Andrew Web
Not ineffable, effable,
Neither deep nor inscrutable
Dai was her singular only name.
This was another creative writers’ workshop exercise – the wonderful workshop started by Ana Paula Corradini and so ably continued by Shauna Nearing Løj. Our prompt was the picture of a park bench, I can’t recall if we had a time limit or word count so I just let the story carry me and here it is.
“Found a young man yet, miss?” he grinned as he said the same words every day to the pretty young girl who’d come and share the only bench in the park with him at exactly four in the afternoon.
“No! Don’t be silly, I don’t want a young man!” and she’d shrug as she harrumphed herself on the far end of the bench and look at the book she’d always bring to read. A few minutes would pass and then quietly, “You say that every time.” The exasperation had almost always left her voice by the time she said this.
The following was first written in March 2011 as the first exercise conducted by Robin Barratt who had just launched the Bahrain Writers Circle. I think that in this assignment the seeds, for what eventually became our anthology My Beautiful Bahrain, were sown. It is a piece I enjoyed writing and it came to me as I looked out from the vast windows of my apartment early one morning late last March, when the wind was blowing furiously making plastic bags and similar debris dance to its erratic persussion and while fear and tension hung thick as smog clouding the air. It has been somewhat modified since that first version that I read out on a very pleasant evening sitting outside the Al Riwaq Art space and where I finally felt part of a group of kindred spirits.
Maggie-Jane is seventeen; gosh, how the years have flown!
Impish little red-haired thing; and now she’s almost grown.
How do I remember her? Oh my, I can’t forget
Coming through my kitchen door, with mom and Cass all wet.
And in a trice the macs were shed, galoshes on the floor
Cassie played and Maggie danced, and we just begged for more.
So I gave them some biryani, tomato bharta spread on top
An Indian combo meal, so the Celtic would not stop.
Maggie danced and whirled about, and tapped her tiny feet
She wasn’t shy, she wasn’t bold, just really, truly sweet.
And that’s how I’ll remember her, forever and a day
A little whirling dervish, that took my heart away.
That took my heart and made it dance, to unknown fiddle strains
Who showed me Nova Scotia’s soul, that dances in the rain.
Biryani = Indian rice dish cooked in a curry stock Tomato Bharta = spicy tomato salsaThe Flaneur is the indie art and culture magazine and website. It is written by artists, writers, poets and reviewers from around the world. Please read our articles and then vote on them – the best will be published in our real-world magazine.
And, I am fortunate enough to have joined this crew of world strollers as a contributor! A piece from my very own FictionPals – the Pen vs The Sword – is featured on this interesting magazine. Do visit it for some off the wall, exciting writing, art, poetry and other musings on the state of culture on our lovely planet.
This piece was written by my mother P. Singha when she visited us in Halifax, NS in 1995. It was first published in the St. Peter’s Birch Cove newsletter, our church.
To understand conversion in India, I feel one must have a basic knowledge of the social, economic and religious structure of our great country.
The East has always been religious and most or almost all religions have sprung up from Asia and the Middle East. Some have been born in India. Man has dominated Man by superiority of intellect, economic power or sheer physical strength.
Naturally, the ignorant accepted, respected and obeyed the intellectual, who interpreted natural phenomena as a revelation from a Super Power – God. Such a person claimed a personal link with this power. All over the world there were periods when individuals claimed to have this link and they became the priestly class. They were the intellectuals who rose above all other human beings in their communities. These intellectuals created social divisions based on economic and physical status of the rest of their race and community.