Forty Days

A Season of Grief, a Season of Rejoicing

November 9-December 20, 2014

For Barbara Beach Alter 
It is Christmas morning in Saco, Maine, where today Bett, Aaron, Emily, Thomasin and our beloved cousin Marie find ourselves gathered to celebrate our first Christmas without dadima (our name for Barbara Beach Alter).  Brother Tom writes that already in India he and Carol with Jamie, Meha and Cayden (the only of her seven greatgrandchildren Barry never held) have celebrated.  Today Marty and Lincoln join us in Maine.

This gathering of documents—notes, drafts of memorial services, poems, homilies—is my christmas present to each of you.  It is a record, certainly subjective, of grief and rejoicing.

John Copley Alter
1:14 a.m.
Saco, Maine 
November 9

Loved ones,
Barbara Beach Alter died peacefully at 2:55 Sunday morning (today).  Bett and I had the good fortune to be there for the final beating of her good strong heart.  She murmured charcoal.  The nurse who was bathing her afterwards noted how few wrinkles there were, and it is true.
For those of you nearby you may if you want visit Mom in her room at hospice this morning (until noon).  Visit? Darshan? Paying respects?
Bett and I plan to be there around 11:00.
Much love to all. A blessed occasion.
John

 
November 10

Matthew 5:13-19
Jesus said, "You are the salt of the earth; but if salt has lost its taste, how can its saltiness be restored? It is no longer good for anything, but is thrown out and trampled under foot.
"You are the light of the world. A city built on a hill cannot be hid. No one after lighting a lamp puts it under the bushel basket, but on the lampstand, and it gives light to all in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.
"Do not think that I have come to abolish the law or the prophets; I have come not to abolish but to fulfill. For truly I tell you, until heaven and earth pass away, not one letter, not one stroke of a letter, will pass from the law until all is accomplished. Therefore, whoever breaks one of the least of these commandments, and teaches others to do the same, will be called least in the kingdom of heaven; but whoever does them and teaches them will be called great in the kingdom of heaven."

yesterday in the early hours my mother died her saltiness
restored all that had through the months of her old
age and convalescence obscured the lens of her life cleaned
away so that for us now more and more clearly
as we hear about her through the memory and love
of so many people her good works shine forth in
their glory but it is to the days of her
convalescence the days of her dementia I would turn our
minds those of us who spent time with her at
Wingate long-term care facility remember that Barbara Beach Alter became
at times fierce in her commanding us that ‘not one
letter, not one stroke of a letter’ of the commandments
should be altered do you remember that those of you
and us who were given the work and gift of
spending time with Barry in those days in that condition

remember for instance how fussy she became about the sequence
of food on her tray how impatient with us for
our trespasses and violations how adamant that we look forward
for instance and not back at her how she would
say stop holding my hand and saying you love me
you have work to do o she was almost impossible
and certainly incoherent and demented in her obsession with law
and procedure fussy impatient imperious I do not forget being
scolded reamed out put in my place for having somehow
failed to do what the ‘law and the prophets’ demand

Barbara beach alter in the days before hospice in the
nursing home and hospital and even if we are honest
in the final years of her life found herself caught
up in the rigidity of her anxious desire to be
faithful to the laws and commandments of her life and
that made her at times extremely demanding to be with

amen and the epistemological confusion of course the clash between
her reality and ours it was all an ordeal for
her and for those of us who kept her company

and yet and yet through it all and now as
that ordeal for her is no longer paramount as she
dances in heaven all the wrinkles and discomfort of her
life removed and forgiven Barbara Beach Alter kept the faith
living in the midst such that those who cared for
her most intimately the strangers all professed your mother blessed
us


Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled.
7 Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy.
8 Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God.
9 Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.
10 Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness' sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
11 Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely, for my sake.
12 Rejoice, and be exceeding glad: for great is your reward in heaven: for so persecuted they the prophets which were before you.



So, brother and sister, here are my thoughts about the memorial service(s).
Let’s find a time when we three can be present; that’s the most important thing.  My life is currently the least constrained by agenda and schedule.  And then the grandchildren, recognizing that Jamie may not be able to come.  So, our work is to find our when our kids are able to come. Bett and I are exploring that with our three, each of whom has some constraint: Emily, the cost; Thomasin, the piebaking demands, Aaron school.  But we are flexible.

Much love.

John



Walking in my mother’s wake today some trees
a gentle breeze some dogs a little boy
the neighborhood and I took joy from interaction

we are at best a fraction in love’s
calculation after all heaven I realize is not
above or below cannot be taught comes naturally

as death does walking in my mother’s wake
I found new allies learned yet again not
to take myself too seriously to be caught

off guard as a matter of principle and
not to insist that I understand but live
in the midst of forgiveness


in my mother’s wake I am reading these books for
some way to continue to knock on her door Wendell
Berry he can tell me some things and William Blake
he can take me closer and I remember she described
me once as an unused Jewish liberal so I am
reading about protestant liberalism but ham that I am also
reading Carl Hiassen’s Bad Monkey and Quo Vadimus that my
daughter left behind and mythologically Reflections from yale divinity school
no fooling Denise Levertov David Sobel Galway Kinnell’s translation of
Rilke some wake
 
November 11

Matthew 25:1-13
Jesus said, "Then the kingdom of heaven will be like this. Ten bridesmaids took their lamps and went to meet the bridegroom. Five of them were foolish, and five were wise. When the foolish took their lamps, they took no oil with them; but the wise took flasks of oil with their lamps. As the bridegroom was delayed, all of them became drowsy and slept. But at midnight there was a shout, 'Look! Here is the bridegroom! Come out to meet him.' Then all those bridesmaids got up and trimmed their lamps. The foolish said to the wise, 'Give us some of your oil, for our lamps are going out.' But the wise replied, 'No! there will not be enough for you and for us; you had better go to the dealers and buy some for yourselves.' And while they went to buy it, the bridegroom came, and those who were ready went with him into the wedding banquet; and the door was shut. Later the other bridesmaids came also, saying, 'Lord, lord, open to us.' But he replied, 'Truly I tell you, I do not know you.' Keep awake therefore, for you know neither the day nor the hour."

this morning in the wee hours my mother died one
of the wise bridesmaids whose lamp to the end was
full she carried always the flask of oil that is
joy that is the love of the kingdom of heaven
and of the bridegroom a flask always replenished by prayer
by devotion by a humble courageous living in the midst

she expected every day the bridegroom to come in other
words and she was also one who would never refuse
to share even the last drop with somebody in need

and at the end it is so clear the door
into the banquet hall was not closed to her as
it is not closed to any one of us foolishness
is to believe otherwise to believe that the bridegroom will
not come today in the early morning in the wee
hours that is when he comes in the midst of
other plans is when he comes even when we are
doing what we assume to be good work when we
are doing what gives us pleasure our duty joy comes
then unsummoned unpredictable random even according to all our best
laid plans my mother loved so many things her pleasure
included dancing late in her life terminally unsteady she invented
what we loved to urge her to do namely the
sitting jig and we grew up with images of her
Isadora Duncan dancing with white scarves in an enchanted forest

Barbara Beach Alter aka Barry aka dadima bari nani aunt
and daughter wife missionary is now I know dancing a
rollicking boisterous jig on the shores of a lake that
is as her grandson once confided to her god in
liquid form spilly Beach of course also dyslexic executive function
compromised she was but one who loved to be always
in the midst surrounded by loved ones some of them
absolute strangers she shared her oil because for her it
came welling up from an inexhaustible source a deep eternal
well of such illumination and laughter such giddy divine chuckles

for her there was to be no exclusion she would
not find the awful idea of being one of the
foolish applicable to anybody but happily she welcomed into her
midst so many it is hard to imagine how many

so there she is now a bridesmaid dancing for joy
in such elegant clothing with such perpetual brightness

amen hallelujah rejoice


sometimes I think she pulled us all out of the
magic hat sometimes I think she knit us all into
one of her theologically impossible sweaters and then with a
wink she passes through the eye of the needle and
is gone and we are left to play in her
honor endless hands of solitaire sometimes I think we are
no more than the hermeneutics of her life the epistemology
artless she was not her heart like one of those
magical meals for her then a doxology praise then praise
she knows salvation

what is a life’s work it is like a landscape
dotted with oases and gardens for the thirsty and the
lost it is like scraping through dry barren ground and
finding there suddenly not only the theology of paradise but
such seeds your hands ache to begin the planting what
is a life’s work what has been shut for too
long opens what has been shut for too long opens

a life’s work renews itself then with death the kernel
of hope that dies in springtime sprouting is what a
life’s work becomes
 
November 12

John 21:15-17
When they had finished breakfast, Jesus said to Simon Peter, "Simon son of John, do you love me more than these?" He said to him, "Yes, Lord; you know that I love you." Jesus said to him, "Feed my lambs." A second time he said to him, "Simon son of John, do you love me?" He said to him, "Yes, Lord; you know that I love you." Jesus said to him, "Tend my sheep." He said to him the third time, "Simon son of John, do you love me?" Peter felt hurt because he said to him the third time, "Do you love me?" And he said to him, "Lord, you know everything; you know that I love you." Jesus said to him, "Feed my sheep.

I know my mother very much enjoyed having breakfast with
god and that the meals of her nursing home drove
her nearly crazy and that when at last she found
hospice o she again could imagine the feast of heaven
at which Jesus breaks bread with us and speaks with
such clarity do you love me more than these I
know it was questions as simple and overwhelming as this
that dominated her final days do you love me love
being  one of the last five words she attempted to
speak do you love me she wrestled in her last
months with epistemology and psychology and theology and all had
to do with whether she could answer unequivocally you know
that I love you and that she could say of
her life that she had broken bread with god we
all remember in her life those moments when there was
a great gladness an innocent acceptance of what lay immediately
in her presence now those months in the nursing home
tormented her in precisely this fashion that it was hard
to accept to be in the midst of such mediocrity
and woe to be innocent and accepting but now praise
god there she is a happy guest at the great
feast and we left behind bereft can acknowledge that she
loved god in her own fashion as best she possibly
could and do you remember being with her there in
hospital or nursing home and she commanding us to move
beyond holding her hand and saying we loved her and
to feed the sheep to do that work which will
make of this earth this here and now an outstation
of heaven Barbara Beach Alter loved god in her own
fashion as best she possibly could we remember that and
that memory is today like a great network a web
of love and inspiration o we would gladly one more
time hold her hand and say I love you but
we know also clearly I think today what the work
is to love our neighbor as ourselves to work for
peace and justice I think of my sister with her
colleagues in WEIGO and how her sisters have understood her
grief  let us break our fast together then glad for
the worldwide web that in these days is reading the
gospel of the life of Barbara Beach Alter praise god


feed
tend
feed
in exchange for his three denials Peter is given three imperative verbs
feed
tend
feed
this is the commission Jesus after breakfast on the shore of the sea of Galilee gives to Peter
twice he says feed
in the commonwealth of Massachusetts 700,000 people are hungry
1 in 6 americans are hungry
living in uncertainty about their daily bread
more than 18,000,000 in Africa
842,000,000 around the world go to bed hungry


Marty and Tom
The thinking about the memorial service is taking this slow and cautious turn, namely that we have three services (at least), one in Sudbury, one in New Haven (allowing Stan and Chuck and others to come) at First Presbyterian (with Blair Moffett we hope), and of course one in India.
The date frame appears to be somewhere between December 17 and 20, unless you have other thoughts.
The actual cremation happens tomorrow.  Lincoln, Bett, Alexis and I will attend, and then of course there is In the Midst on Friday.
Love you more than tongue can tell.
John


the thing with a life well lived is that many
people have partaken the way let’s say a river moves
down through any number of different lives all the time
sedulously seeking the shortest path to the sea to steal
a line from somebody or other meandering a watershed within
which so many of us find a way to live
our own lives nourished and for each of us the
river distinct and different white water the slow fertile meander
the delta and we say to each other this is
the composite river


sometimes I feel like a sleepwalker trying to run a
marathon sometimes I feel like a speedbump in a blizzard

an arrow in a wind tunnel sometimes I feel like

a hazard sign in an old age home sometimes I
feel like a tyrannosaurus rex trying to ride a tricycle

and sometimes those are the good days when identity is
strong like an icicle in a heat wave is strong

I try to read wisdom literature at happy hour scotch
and Solomon can’t go wrong I think and sometimes I

feel like crying
 
November 13

four days ago we were left alone there with your
body after your breathing ceased and the proud stubborn beating
of your heart and in those four days beloved mother
so much I would love to say to you and
share the antics of the squirrel late leaves on the
neighborhood trees music Orion the network the atlas of love
your life has left behind and all the words we
are the gospel of today and I would sit with
you there then in silence as I sit now four
days later vigilant insomniac aware that the kingdom of heaven
is not more complicated than singing than love than dancing

we are all dancing the dance lord siva teaches and
the s

Tam-is niyang paghiyom ang nagahatag kanako’g
kalagsik hangtud sa kahangturan.    


Gahum! O Gahum! Nga dalagita sama sa nagbagang kalayo sa kabatan-onan    
‘Di mapalong kon agi-an man sa mug-ot nga panganod o uwan,    
Sama sa usa ka punoan, aduna siyay gibarugan,    
‘Di matarog ug matangtang bisan igka pila mo pang tayhupan,    
Kini jud mga dalagita, kusog magpapitik sa dughan    
Ma-anaa man sa luyo o sa atbang, mahutdan gayod ka’g hangin bisag wala gadagan    
Ug in-ani ka-cool ang nag-inusarang dalagita nga akong gipanguyaban.    


Sa mga pulong nga akong gihandum sa kagabhi-ong itum  
Sama sa mga words nga akong gihandum, aduna kini gahum     
Words ug mga pulong, mabutang man sa taas o sa silong, kini tanan kay akong sagolon    
Mag-iningles man o sa ma-bisaya, gugma lang sa gahum nga babae akong maangkon      
She is undeniably adorable murag, life in cotton      
Babaeng angayan bisag unsa pa iyang sul-oton     
Kay aduna siyay own things nga maka-empower sa iyang kaugalingon.    




She’s an epitome of an empowered woman that looks at you with unbothered recognition;    
Like a walking sculpture beyond the measure of imagination and description.    
Her mind is filled with wonders, and her heart is a slate;    
born to be herself and not to solely procreate    
A capable woman that hits like a note    
A note that is enough to float your melodic boat    
One that accepts you even if you look like a goat.    


Sa nagtuyok-tuyok na mga pulong na gipuga sa akong utok    
Anaa pa sa akong mind, ug ni-retain, ang pahigugma niyang pagtutok,    
Aduna puy times nga musuol ang iyang katok,    
Pero bisag unsa kagahi ang iyahang dughan, naa juy times nga kini kay humok    
Samot na sa times nga ako maghinuktok    
samtang ikaw nalunod sa tam-is **** paghinanok    
Paghigugma ko kanimo sama sa usa ka ubo, kusog muugbok.    


Sama sa usa ka lyrics sa usa ka song,    
Di malipong ug paminaw sa naglatagaw kong mga pulong    
Ako mubalik ug Iningles para ikaw na naminaw;    
makakita pa ug preskong  silaw sa adlaw.    
Aduna napud ko pabalik, padulong na mag-iningles ug balik    
Sa hunahuna ako nalumos, pero dughan ko pa kay abtik    
Samot na ug ikaw ang mutunga, mupadayon kini ug pitik.    



An empowered woman, An empowered woman!    
Balak kong gitagik, kunus-a paman ni mahuman,    
Ay, ‘way kurat! Padulong nani sa katapusan,    
So fret not and relax! Higopi sa ug kape kay naa nata dapit sa katapusan    
To sum it all up, she is an empowered woman    
She is someone that believes nga aduna siyay padulngan.    
‘Di matarog bisag igka pila mo pa ihuyog.

the reason why mr bean has problems

is he is a doofuss, top see the men ditched him because his nye party is

jus vinegar and tree twigs, how weird is that

the reason why the kids teased him at the pool

is because he was such a ******, making it all the way to the top

and then being scared nd climbing down

the reason why his girlfriend ditched him at xmas

is because instead of a ring, he gave her a picture of a man giving a woman a ring

and a hook and mr bean is a ****** because when he was

moving the hole in the wall, he didn’t ****** well check it

another thing that makes mr bean a ****** is the real world

you see at least i pay my way, mr bean is too much of a ****** to pay his way

and another thing that makes mr bean a ****** is at the putt putt golf course

he listened too much to the golf man as he followed the ball around town

i like mr bean teasing the men, but at the hotel there was truth in the matter

that teasers only win the battle, they never win the war because at the hotel

everyone was teasing poor old mr bean

and i liked him teasing the christian man in church, that was fun

mr bean was a ****** there, because he doesn’t look at it as teasing

his character has autism, and autistic people need to be watched

mind you mr bean was a TV character, but still, all guns blazing if we put him in the real world

he does remind me of myself, but i wasn’t that much of a ******

i was just a filthy kid, i am REFORMED OR BETTER TAKE YOUR PICK

NAKUSHUKURU
Baba nakushukuru kwa kunipa uhai hata sasa,
Nashukuru kwa kunisamehe na kunitakasa,
Nashukuru kwa kuwa ulikufa kwa ajili yangu,
Nashukuru kwani ulinibariki toka tumboni mwa mama yangu,
Nashukuru unanipenda hata na mapungufu yangu,
Nashukuru kwa kuwa unanilinda kutoka na kuingia kwangu,
Lihimidiwe jina lako YEHOVA hakuna kama wewe,
Mungu kwa kuwa hakuna kinachoweza kulinganishwa na upendo wako,
Hakuna kinachoweza kulinganishwa na wema wako,
Je ni mwanadamu gani awezaye kufa kwa ajili ya asimjua?
Ni nani awezaye kukubali kuteseka kwa niaba ya yule amchukiaye?
Ni nani awezaye kuuweka chini uhai wake kwa ajili ya adui yake?

Jupiter moon v Saturn Methane


Today Javk Dyer and Chris Mainwaring are having a fun day at Jupiter Moon oval, to celebrate the after life UFL tournament, and Jack Dyer started the ball rolling with two space kickers, Daniel Morecmbe and Graham Thorne, and Graham Thorne kicked about 2 goals and 17 behinds and he beat Daniel Morecambe who just kicked 1 goal and no behinds and after they was over we went to the handball competition run by Tony Campbell, and we had some great participants like Don Bradman and Tony Grieg, and Zara Baker came in and was the first to get a bulls eye, and she got it twice, and also Peter Sargent handballed two through the bullseye and him and Zara were looking like winning, untill Blske came in and scored a superb bulls eye three times and he won the hand ball competition, there were two more entries, who were Peter Harvey and graham Kennedy, but neither of them got bulls eyes, so Peter Sargent won the prize, the next thing was the tie up footy game, you see if you miss a goal you get a part of your body ******* and if you get a goal, you don't, so the aim is to not get it wrong, because you will find it hard to get free to kick your next attempted goal, so the first was Naomi Innes, and she kicked a behind and Ted Bundy tied her legs together, and then Brett Eggins kicked a great goal, and he yelled put, boys are better, your going down little girlie, and then Zara Baker kicked a goal and she went over to Brett and said, girl's are smarter than you, na, nani, na na, then Scott Macdonald came up and kicked a goal and went up to Zara Baker and said boys rule the afterlife, chicks rule the bed afterwards, and then Marilyn Monroe came over and kicked a behind and the boys tied her legs together and both Naomi and Marilyn were trying to be free the next time, and then River Phoenix had a shot and he scored a behind and he disgraced the boys when Ted Bundy came out and tied his legs together, yes Ted felt good and the final person was Micheal Jackson, and he scored a beautiful goal, and now for the second and last series, and first Naomi with her legs tied together, tried to push her legs up, and because it was tbe afterlife, Naomi pushed her legs and showed us her skills she learnt in death, then Brett Eggins, kicked another goal, and Brett said I am the ruler of this afterlife, no one will beat me, no way no chance no hope and then Zara Baker, who requested to run with the ball with defenders trying to stop her, but that was a trick, because little Zara Baker was too fast as she swung around everyone and scored her second goal, and she said, go Zara, go Zara, I am the greatest in the afterlife, oh yeah I am and then Marilyn Monroe came to magically kick with her feet tied together, and she tried a full somersault over the top of Jupiter moon and scored a great goal and Marilyn said, I am the greatest kicker in the after life, and seeing I don't know much about Aussie rules, I seem alright, dudes, River Phoenis had the next kick and he wasn't too lucky and Ted Bundy tied his hands together as well as gag his mouth, and he is the loser, so he is going to burn in hell or get burnt by the methane, whatever came first, Micheal Jackson came in next to score a great goal,  and Zara, Brett and Micheal Jackson were our winners, congratulations to you 3 dudes, yes this was a great day at Jupiter moon, and everybody had fun.

My Nani had hands like the earth:
coarse and calloused,
warm and stained deep shades
of crimson
from the henna she used for her hair,
like the rich clays of the desert
I called my home.

My Nani had hands like grey-chipped sky:
cracked and weathered,
but capable of shrouding
my smaller ones
in her own.

My Nani used to tell me stories,
about the life she left behind
when she crossed the sea
to be with me.
Every gesture of those familiar hands -
vibrant -
painting over details
that had faded
like old silk saris.

We listened to the rain
together,
as I hid beneath her covers
and waited for the Sonoran sun
to return.

And my Nani would lift my hands,
guide me outside,
water droplets rolling off of our skin
like kisses from heaven.
With her hands, she tore scraps of newspaper,
folding boats with deft movements,
while I set them into the swirling water
that sloshed above our submerged feet.
          Jeevan hai
                             toophaan ke baad.
There is life
after the storm.

She held my hand,
as the thunder bellowed
and the pooling rivers
carried the words from us -
floating stories
that no one would remember
once time bleached them away.

silence is so peaceful
i meditate in the sounds of nature
anyone, anything that brings noise has got to be removed
i need QUIETness
i love to hear myself breathing
i hear all the sounds my body makes
i can hear the birds wings flapping from inside my home
when i am quiet i hear so much more
when i am quiet i am so far from the world.

NaNi

Who the **** do you think you are?
walking into my life without my permission
opening my heart without warning me
sliding between my legs without preparing me
I must have "Your wife" written on my forehead
the way you stole my heart
changed my direction
flipped me in all different types of positions
crazy how you knew just what i needed
so where the **** we headed?

-Nani

some are afraid to fall in love
me?
i'm afraid to find my equal
because in that moment
my player ways are over
there are way too many people in the world
to be tied down to you right now
so please baby take your time finding me

NaNi

I gave you the tighest hug
neither one of us could breathe
we both released each other
burst out in laughter, smiles we shared
who knew we'd see each other again
all because of a blank stare

NaNi

I got a taste for something that can only be found between your legs....
I mean something more mental that physical
Mind blowing
I can easily slide between you like a snake slithers in the grass
Yet you hold your legs closed so tightly
The only thing capable of entering it is my mind
So i thought maybe i can penetrate your thoughts to leave you breathless
Entering you into a world where you no longer have control over your legs
Cause then again my only mission is to leave you breathless
Nice strokes, my tongue sliding down every curve
I try my hardest to keep you trapped in this world i created for you mentally
My words coming from my mouth so smooth
Smooth like every curve of ya body when i run my hands gently down ya hips
Iam trying to leave you breathless
Have you falling asleep
I wont see you til breakfast
You gave in

NaNi

the past cannot be undone
what is done is done
& what wasn't now is
acceptance is closure
the present is your gift
make sure the past isn't interfering with its growth
because you can go nowhere really fast
& your future is now dependent on the past
which of course won't last



-Nani

i painted a picture on my wall
painted with the blood from my wrist
i wrote love with the knife she used
the knife she used to stab my heart
three times is all it took
and now i stare at this masterpiece
painted from a piece of me
a piece of me that was left broken
no one able to see
that it took my entire life to create it

NaNi

It is all about the thing that is the last whisper you hear  before you sleep.
It is all about the lingering feeling of a soft kiss on your lips before you snuggle the night away in his arm.
It is all about the random tide that hits you making you realise how much you're loved,
Like a silent sky people forget about sometimes but is always there when you look up.
It is all about the numbing chilly breeze on a wintery midnight, that makes you feel so much,
The roads and surroundings covered in orangish pink hues,  slowly humming to themselves, luring you in a trance.
It is all about the soft wintery moon smiling down at you,
Or the science exams that bring out your artistic streaks
It is about those moment of tranquillity where every piece falls into the places they belong.
It is all about the stains you get after laying in the grass early morning
Each dew drop looks like a twinkling sun of their own.
It is about getting to taste heaven in your favorite flavor,
And enjoy the sun  kiss your skin.
It is all about nani maa oiling your hair and your mother's eyes twinkling,  while she says you're such a spoiled  kid.
It  is about the hope that someone else  will get the door.
It is all about fluffy socks,  sweater with hand drawn patterns
It is all about flushed cheeks, freezing hands in your friend's pocket
Like the snow flakes that fall,
Unique in their own way,
Every season with itself brings
Its own flavor and shades,
And though summer is well known for  lighting a wildfire  in everyone's heart,
And adrenaline rush of first love,
Winter stands elegantly,  and let things run into a deeper course.

i scream "HELLO"
as it echos from the walls
hoping it will reach you
reach your heart & mind
i scream "ARE YOU THERE?"
echos moving quickly until they disappear
are they even reaching you?
i guess if they were i wouldnt be searching for you
so as i sit here making echos hoping you could hear
my life is passing me by
ill never get this time back
so i realized you will never be anything more than an ECHO
an echo against the walls i have now built against you
NaNi

Here love blossoms
Here people come running frankly
Here the head bows in reverence
Here Bengali is the book of poetry.
Here is a fistful of hands in vows to remember the martyrs
Here the Bengali's roared
Such as Ekushey of Bahanna one day
Woke up.
The world has seen a lot of shots
Didn't see the language soaked in blood February!
Hyena's team is so brazen and so barbaric
Kari wants to take her mother's language
Salam-Barkat Rafiq-Shafiq Jabbar
The vigilant guard of the mother tongue poured out the ****** of the chest.
Then a Mujib at the front of the procession
Sheikh Mujib is at the forefront of history
Bengal and Bengali took the lead
Fifty-two sixty-two - we got the demand to survive
The days of seventy-nine fires have come
Bangabandhu got Bengali
Day of release ahead.
In nineteen years, Bengalis took the form of the liberation army
Twenty-one to seventy-one
Mujib gave the call - at the March racecourse
When he heard the shackle-breaking poem
"This time the struggle is for freedom" ...
The fort was built from house to house
The defeated Pak army looked at him with a smirk
The red-green flag flew over the open land of Bengal
The people of Bangladesh chanted the slogan in unison - Joybangla!
The world has never seen such a February, such a March, such a December of victory
Proud Shaheed Minar with red-green flag!

You find an old trunk
In the attic of your nani's house.
Bravely braving the dust and
Creepy cobwebs, you tip toe,
t i p p y t o e
towards this testament to the ages.
On the heavy, heavy lid
lie the introductions of old stories -
tucked beneath discarded truths
and gilded lily lies.
You push the heavy lid up
like the brave, brave child that you are.
The only sounds -
a massive groan,
and the absence of your breath.

Tucked within are treasures.

The first layer -
a thin film of castles
royal drawbridges,
a high tower,
several dozen horses,
gold necklaces,
of Kings and Queens,
and the in-betweens.

A second sheath
Decorated with tales of conquests,
a victory here and there,
tales of rigid tests,
a problem to be solved
by the truly good,
and the uniquely pure.

The last layer sits happily at the bottom.
An age-old invitation to all
who seek solace.
Mumma's old dolls sit beside
Nani's soft sarees,
faded like her hair,
and like her memory.
This layer gives warmth.

No, it is warmth.

The last layer awaits your weary heart,
It holds the secret art of
curing every bad day.
This layer will caress your worries
And fold them into
itself
         into oblivion,
or perhaps
into a Happy Ending.

"Goodnight, sweet dreams"- I used to say.
Then when I came back home
after staying at grandma's for the holidays with the cousins,
I listed their names as I went to sleep,
good night, sweet dreams accompanied with each.
"Good night-sweet dreams, Nani Ji"
"Good night to everyone whenever your night might come"
"Sweet dreams to everyone whenever your night might come"

So completely in love
my heart is tight in your grip
making my legs weaker & weaker
grasping for air as we escape each other
a love so strong we created peace


-Nani

Please know , I didn’t leave because i wanted to. I let go because you left me no other choice. I’m never the type to give up so easily & drop you. I’m the type to give you chance after chance even if you’ve done me wrong. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you however toxic you may be, even if it’s hurting me, breaking me, only because I don’t want to be remembered as the person who hurt you. As the person who “left.” I’m not the type to give up on people or let them go, but if ever I decide to, please understand it took all the air in me, all the energy in me, all the strength & courage to do so. I don’t give up easily. I don’t let go easily, but if you give me a million small reasons to walk away, I’ll walk away after my cup of chances runs out, knowing i gave you my all & i tried my best. Not giving me a good reason to stay, is a good enough reason for me to leave. So i hope one day you realize how much i truly did care for you. I promise you’ll miss me being there, putting up with your **** & refusing to give up on you. You’ll regret everything you’ve ever done to hurt me. Including all the damage you’ve caused.   One thing will always remain true, i loved you , cared for you, respected you when all i got was pain. That’s a scar that will always stay.


-Nani

Ainsi, mon cher, tu t'en reviens
Du pays dont je me souviens
Comme d'un rêve,
De ces beaux lieux où l'oranger
Naquit pour nous dédommager
Du péché d'Ève.

Tu l'as vu, ce ciel enchanté
Qui montre avec tant de clarté
Le grand mystère ;
Si pur, qu'un soupir monte à Dieu
Plus librement qu'en aucun lieu
Qui soit sur terre.

Tu les as vus, les vieux manoirs
De cette ville aux palais noirs
Qui fut Florence,
Plus ennuyeuse que Milan
Où, du moins, quatre ou cinq fois l'an,
Cerrito danse.

Tu l'as vue, assise dans l'eau,
Portant gaiement son mezzaro,
La belle Gênes,
Le visage peint, l'oeil brillant,
Qui babille et joue en riant
Avec ses chaînes.

Tu l'as vu, cet antique port,
Où, dans son grand langage mort,
Le flot murmure,
Où Stendhal, cet esprit charmant,
Remplissait si dévotement
Sa sinécure.

Tu l'as vu, ce fantôme altier
Qui jadis eut le monde entier
Sous son empire.
César dans sa pourpre est tombé :
Dans un petit manteau d'abbé
Sa veuve expire.

Tu t'es bercé sur ce flot pur
Où Naples enchâsse dans l'azur
Sa mosaique,
Oreiller des lazzaroni
Où sont nés le macaroni
Et la musique.

Qu'il soit rusé, simple ou moqueur,
N'est-ce pas qu'il nous laisse au coeur
Un charme étrange,
Ce peuple ami de la gaieté
Qui donnerait gloire et beauté
Pour une orange ?

Catane et Palerme t'ont plu.
Je n'en dis rien ; nous t'avons lu ;
Mais on t'accuse
D'avoir parlé bien tendrement,
Moins en voyageur qu'en amant,
De Syracuse.

Ils sont beaux, quand il fait beau temps,
Ces yeux presque mahométans
De la Sicile ;
Leur regard tranquille est ardent,
Et bien dire en y répondant
N'est pas facile.

Ils sont doux surtout quand, le soir,
Passe dans son domino noir
La toppatelle.
On peut l'aborder sans danger,
Et dire : « Je suis étranger,
Vous êtes belle. »

Ischia ! C'est là, qu'on a des yeux,
C'est là qu'un corsage amoureux
Serre la hanche.
Sur un bas rouge bien tiré
Brille, sous le jupon doré,
La mule blanche.

Pauvre Ischia ! bien des gens n'ont vu
Tes jeunes filles que pied nu
Dans la poussière.
On les endimanche à prix d'or ;
Mais ton pur soleil brille encor
Sur leur misère.

Quoi qu'il en soit, il est certain
Que l'on ne parle pas latin
Dans les Abruzzes,
Et que jamais un postillon
N'y sera l'enfant d'Apollon
Ni des neuf Muses.

Il est bizarre, assurément,
Que Minturnes soit justement
Près de Capoue.
Là tombèrent deux demi-dieux,
Tout barbouillés, l'un de vin vieux,
L'autre de boue.

Les brigands t'ont-ils arrêté
Sur le chemin tant redouté
De Terracine ?
Les as-tu vus dans les roseaux
Où le buffle aux larges naseaux
Dort et rumine ?

Hélas ! hélas ! tu n'as rien vu.
Ô (comme on dit) temps dépourvu
De poésie !
Ces grands chemins, sûrs nuit et jour,
Sont ennuyeux comme un amour
Sans jalousie.

Si tu t'es un peu détourné,
Tu t'es à coup sûr promené
Près de Ravenne,
Dans ce triste et charmant séjour
Où Byron noya dans l'amour
Toute sa haine.

C'est un pauvre petit cocher
Qui m'a mené sans accrocher
Jusqu'à Ferrare.
Je désire qu'il t'ait conduit.
Il n'eut pas peur, bien qu'il fît nuit ;
Le cas est rare.

Padoue est un fort bel endroit,
Où de très grands docteurs en droit
Ont fait merveille ;
Mais j'aime mieux la polenta
Qu'on mange aux bords de la Brenta
Sous une treille.

Sans doute tu l'as vue aussi,
Vivante encore, Dieu merci !
Malgré nos armes,
La pauvre vieille du Lido,
Nageant dans une goutte d'eau
Pleine de larmes.

Toits superbes ! froids monuments !
Linceul d'or sur des ossements !
Ci-gît Venise.
Là mon pauvre coeur est resté.
S'il doit m'en être rapporté,
Dieu le conduise !

Mon pauvre coeur, l'as-tu trouvé
Sur le chemin, sous un pavé,
Au fond d'un verre ?
Ou dans ce grand palais Nani ;
Dont tant de soleils ont jauni
La noble pierre ?

L'as-tu vu sur les fleurs des prés,
Ou sur les raisins empourprés
D'une tonnelle ?
Ou dans quelque frêle bateau.
Glissant à l'ombre et fendant l'eau
À tire-d'aile ?

L'as-tu trouvé tout en lambeaux
Sur la rive où sont les tombeaux ?
Il y doit être.
Je ne sais qui l'y cherchera,
Mais je crois bien qu'on ne pourra
L'y reconnaître.

Il était ***, jeune et hardi ;
Il se jetait en étourdi
À l'aventure.
Librement il respirait l'air,
Et parfois il se montrait fier
D'une blessure.

Il fut crédule, étant loyal,
Se défendant de croire au mal
Comme d'un crime.
Puis tout à coup il s'est fondu
Ainsi qu'un glacier suspendu
Sur un abîme...

Mais de quoi vais-je ici parler ?
Que ferais-je à me désoler,
Quand toi, cher frère,
Ces lieux où j'ai failli mourir,
Tu t'en viens de les parcourir
Pour te distraire ?

Tu rentres tranquille et content ;
Tu tailles ta plume en chantant
Une romance.
Tu rapportes dans notre nid
Cet espoir qui toujours finit
Et recommence.

Le retour fait aimer l'adieu ;
Nous nous asseyons près du feu,
Et tu nous contes
Tout ce que ton esprit a vu,
Plaisirs, dangers, et l'imprévu,
Et les mécomptes.

Et tout cela sans te fâcher,
Sans te plaindre, sans y toucher
Que pour en rire ;
Tu sais rendre grâce au bonheur,
Et tu te railles du malheur
Sans en médire.

Ami, ne t'en va plus si ****.
D'un peu d'aide j'ai grand besoin,
Quoi qu'il m'advienne.
Je ne sais où va mon chemin,
Mais je marche mieux quand ma main
Serre la tienne.