Saturday, 26 March 2016
Float to the Top.
our narcissistic pasts,
and simply rise above it.
and deriding it,
and we naturally
float to the top.
we've chosen to wallow in it.
that it easily gains,
in length and breadth.
and surreptitiously,
steals away our very breath
So stop fighting it,
and deriding it,
and just float to the top.
Friday, 25 March 2016
Thursday, 24 March 2016
Together
Tuesday, 22 March 2016
Sunday, 20 March 2016
Friday, 18 March 2016
Fair Trade
Tuesday, 15 March 2016
Sunday, 13 March 2016
A Momentary Scar.
I woke up on the ground. The indent of the cold black bitumen a momentary scar on my swollen and bruised face.
Dazed, I slowly pulled myself up to a sitting position. My clothes were damp and torn, my body ached. The last thing I remember was the sound of scuffling feet, a flash of light and a piercing pain on the top of my head.
I had been heading towards 'Vincent's Boarding House' in Hackford Road. I had been given the address by one of the English Embassy officials. I was on my way there, to arrange temporary accommodation.
I reached in my pocket for about the hundredth time, to see if the carefully folded piece of paper was still there. My hands felt the rough edges and I breathed out a sigh of relief. Even though I'd memorized the numbers and words long before now, it was a comfort to read the words and numbers and dream.
On it was written the address of my only living relative. Yana Medjool, 32 Templeton Road, Brixton, London, SW9.
Tired, hungry and now mugged and robbed. If I could have felt any more homesick at this present time, I didn’t think it possible.
I had only escaped Syria with my life. Everyone and everything was gone. The civil war had destroyed a lot of lives and families, communities and cities.
Could my situation get any worse? I had never felt so alone, and so overwhelmed with grief.
A shadow fell over me, I flinched as I felt a hand on my shoulder. “Are you ok?” said an unknown voice, with a heavy indistinguishable accent.
I looked up into the kindest face that I had seen in a long time, since before the bombing had begun. The old man slowly helped me to my feet. It didn’t seem like anything was broken. “Come” he said, “I live close to here, we get you cleaned up, and have a look at those cuts on your head, hey."
The homely smells of hot soup and warm bread greeted me as I came out of the shower. The old man had left some of his son’s musty old clothes out for me. I slowly dressed myself and walked out to the kitchen. I sat at the old wooden table, where Theo had set some cutlery for me. He bowled up some soup and placed it before me. It was the best meal I'd had since my last family meal.
We tried to converse, me with my hopeless English and he with some sign language, some broken English and some unfamiliar words, that he wrote on a piece of A4 paper.
“Once you finish your Avgolemeno, we head down to the Police Station and report your mugging, and then we head over to your embassy and see if we get someone translate your story to me”. he smiled
This morning I woke up to a surprised face staring down at me. I found out later that Theo’s niece was visiting from the U.S and her uncle hadn't gotten a chance to tell her about me.
She was shy but curious. Her expression was welcomingly, pleasant like her Uncles.
It felt like time froze for almost a minute. We had no language in common but our eyes locked together in deep concentration, as if we were both trying to remember where we had seen each other before.
She finally turned and hurried out of the room.
I had a quick shower and got dressed. I walked apprehensively down the dark hall, towards the kitchen. Theo was busy cooking up some more of his childhood memories.
He had put me up for over a week now. He very kindly told me that I was welcome to stay until I found my Aunt and got back on my feet again.
It seemed like good luck had finally turned its benevolent face my way again.
The girl was at the sink with her back to me, Theo smiled a good morning. I smiled back and took a seat, on the well worn kitchen stool. Theo was making an omelette with graveira cheese and Hellene his niece, was making some Greek coffee and toast.
For the first time in a long time, I was able to steal myself away, from the painful memories that had been haunting me for so long.