And last, but not least…

And last, but in no way least, if I have shown even a morsel of courage to accept the writer that I am today then it is you – only you – who is the reason for my sunburst renewal. Thank you, thank you, thank you my dear friend. Alive again and always yours, M. 

And last, but not least...

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Platform Antiques: Mr Ant & I

A verbatim account lifted off from my recent entries in my travel journal:

The modern serpent, a rushing taut declaration of uncatchable steel, sent my gypsy locks into an electrical streak-burst of anarchy. I felt beyond myself. That is when I saw the little chap whizzing towards the vast canyon of my shadow. In my mind I imagined that Mr Ant, who was now scurrying bravely across the baked concrete platform, pausing for breath, and then by chance looking up, discovering that the orb of the sun had mysteriously blacked out. All of it gone. My form elevated to a sheltering eclipse from the heatwave that had for days clinched the English landscape to a halt. To think that a passing train was invested with that level of casual power so as to unleash noble service from my untied hair made me tickle with laughter, and my toes, forever leaning towards the horizon, skipped up and down on the earth. What huge fun this is! I have yet to step foot onto the mat of my destination and already I have offered myself up as an unfathomable adventure for a creature no one else cares to see, likewise he has unknowingly proportioned the same benevolence of magic into the preface of my journey…  ♥♥♥   

Words:  © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | In between cities | UK 2016

The Old Man And The Jigsaw

An old man of eighty five was he, that spine-curved hunchback Mr Jones
He lived his lonely years inside a tower block slewed of sluggish tones
Four ugly damp walls watched him as he grappled with his mouldy food of mash
No pension to speak of so he’d beg neighbours for some petty cash
His eyes smite by fogs of cataracts and cancer bludgeoned blossoms in his lung
Ears teased in rude bells of tinnitus and blisters blazed on his tongue
And ghastly gashes screamed all over the lining fabric of his chair
In spite of this he sat down and gazed at the box with the sincerest of care

The night outside filled with revellers who revolted in a drunken spree
Mr Jones, in his darken den, sought a moth-eaten jigsaw for company
Stroking the cover like an old acquaintance, or tune plucked out of memory
A chore it was to lift the lid, his struggle oil-slicked in drudgery

Inside scattered dormant the crumbed chaos of many a chipped part
He reached out shakily and yet did not know where to start
And so the world around him vanished as part by part the picture grew:
A tall lighthouse striped of ivory and red, a sea of sapphire blue
And three o’clock, four o’clock the night spun on and on
His rickety fingers trudged ahead, this old man of anon
Ah! A sandy shore and a harbour and swooping seagulls hunt for bread
Chuckling children laze with sweet treats, the smell of sea-salt is widespread

Only a few pieces to go, but the old man is stabbed by deafening pain
His wrinkled palm clutches up to his chest, his both eyes bulge out insane
Life seethes out its finality on the old man’s fingers cold
Wills the last piece into place and lets the whole scene unfold
A long sigh mingles with the room and crashing down came the chair
The neighbour hears from the floor below but he does not give the slightest care

A week had passed and the paper boy knows that something is terribly amiss
Calls the bobbies first but they send him away with an incredulous hiss
So the paper boy braves on alone, prises door open wide with a paperclip
Stomps in through to find a room, on floor an empty chair with rip
And over on the wooden table the boy caught sight of something – a jigsaw of an Arabian sea
And bobbing along waters sapphire blue, a celestial dhow carrying I and he…  ♥♥♥  

The Old Man And The Jigsaw

“… And over on the wooden table the boy caught sight of something – a jigsaw of an Arabian sea…”

 

Poetry: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | Winchester | UK 2016
Photography: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | Guernsey | Channel Islands | 2014 

Lay All Your Love On Me!

The Tree Man, his weighed down scabbard of upright rule and forged of cragged bark
Stout were his swaying boughs, gladiatorial, now none to give him mark
His fate he thought was loneliness, a perpetual ink hatched by wings of raven fiend
And when midnight mined its darkest jewels, he wished upon his trunk She leaned…

She is I, the desert Nile dream at dawn, a nubile dhow filled of seedling heaps
My physique distils spheres of honey onto shadows vined of matted creeps
And where my bare element of feet raze the skyline of grass to flat
Souls beneath the kiln of earth, I hear, beg me to be sat

The big barren Tree Man fell into his last wilting well of woe
Plagues of screaming malice slithered through his rotting toe
Stop!” whispered I and crept under his hard bough, my gazelle kohl poised to tame
Laid down my complex flesh, a Nubian basilica, shuddered his roots into fuchsia flame

On the scorch of his sword green sea, he breathed my sensuality with pinkish offerings
A gift of himself, too long unshared, the corpus of his sufferings
And when new morn came at last and the lively limbs of urchins rushed out to play
None saw the shining shrine of the hollow spot where the dusk owls had seen us lay… ♥♥♥

Lay All Your Love On Me!

Laid down my complex flesh, a Nubian basilica, shuddered his roots into fuchsia flame…

Lay All Your Love On Me!

On the scorch of his sword green sea, he breathed my sensuality with pinkish offerings...”

Photography & Poem: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | Abbey Gardens | Winchester | UK 2016

My Students’ Art Exhibition: Reading The Seasons By Mr Billy

A singular reason for why in a year You shall only discover at the most six or seven photographs of me is that whenever I stand in front of the lens I feel as though I am succumbing my own magical powers to a great injustice. The magical power that I speak of is that of the good kind and it is called the summons for Storytelling, the planting of words which the gardener hopes shall teach and inspire.

I am a natural teller of stories and were You to ask any friend or family member of mine, they would be quick to point out that “when Mazzy opens her gob she turns every little thing into the most astounding epic ever written!” It is not a learnt habit. I was born with the Gift, a tendency for conjoining language and imagination in creative ways. I have no intention of making money or fame from my pursuits, rather, it is a sacred blessing from whose fountain of healing waters I wish to touch the lives of as many souls as possible. That is the true source behind the boundless joy that dances inside the rivulets of my heart, and I know, unequivocally, that the entire theatrical troupe of the Universe supports me in my quest.

In this incarnation I have chosen to work as a teacher and my specialism lies in supporting and developing the potentials of adults with learning disabilities and difficulties. Never is there a day that I return home complaining about my work. However, the traditional and age-old stigmatisation attached to people with learning difficulties has not completely departed from the minds of many people, even here in the so-called civilised and democratic west. In the past, when I was younger, it was a bit of a struggle living the job as I came under fire from relatives who would often harangue and bombard me with critical speeches on why a ‘genius’ would want to spend the prime years of her life slaving away in a profession that paid little and involved nothing more than keeping ‘mad people’ on track.

To be frank, I gave to them as good as I got! With hands on my hip I would retort fearlessly, “Someone else can be the doctor or the lawyer, my Destiny is on a different path”. That shut them up pretty nicely! We all have a part to play in this machinery of life, a web of intricate connections, and I do agree that certain parts of that web may pay better and lead onto a life of luxury or high status, yet my Sight sees with clarity rubbed out of all doubt, that if even a single node of that web was eliminated – if every dustbin collector or the cleaner vanished from the face of the planet, or if every judge or consultant surgeon were bumped off – then, the whole cog system is made upset, and everything eventually would fall apart. I see that bigger picture, and thus I am not fussed the slightest about status or income or image. What is the point in parading my face day in and day out when one day it shall be the feast for the creatures of the earth? What is the point of securing a palatial home, a supersonic car or muscles the size of puffy clouds when none of it will come to Your aid in Your twilight years? What is the point of these fleeting instances of nonsense, my dearest Reader?

My currency is in the Unseen. The invisible world exists, all around me, above me, below me, a fabric of intense longing that stretches through space and time and cuts across all the other Dimensions that scientists will one day confirm with You, and therein, through all this, lies the jewels that I try to narrate to You, and the Voice I have chosen is that of my humble craft of Storytelling.

And, it is only and only ever, my True Love for YOU, as eternal as the unseen rocks that live beneath this very earth on which You walk on and that I cannot see You do, at least from where I am, that can ever explain why Mr Billy, my adorable student, bursts out in a smile, a sweet mixture of divine innocence and happiness that can only come from making a stellar achievement. He requested that I show You his gloriously giant and vividly embellished painting of the community garden, and bless him, no matter how truant the weather, Mr Billy, like me, loves to tend to the communal garden and grow his own delicious fruit and vegetables and we have even swapped ideas in class!

I was moved to tears as Mr Billy, in his kindly tone of voice, commentated on the little details that scattered all over his mural-like piece of art, and he did not want to stop. He knew of the depth of my amazement and affection for what had been created and so leaned his head into my shoulder. I patted him on the cheek and told him he was a genius! He had made me rich, but the money that I had accrued could not be seen, an unfathomable denomination it was, and for which I can only but service You this portrait of a brilliant mind and daring soul. Mad are those who renounce the choice to view true genius from 360 degree perspective. I pity them, for they are the sufferers of the deficiency of ignorance. It does not need to be so, as the flower opens to converse with the expanses of a mesmerising outer world, so is there an equal chance that the eyelids of the affected could do so, too.

Meanwhile, the latest gardening update from my end is that as soon as the weather turns a little milder I shall endeavour, upon returning from work, to trot off into the garden! My knees firmly planted into the sumptuously mucky soil as I cheerfully get cracking on to let the earth breathe with the rhythmic motions of my handy trowel, I will be turning the sleeping clods over on themselves, then scattering farmhouse manure around the girth of rose bushes and weeding out and cutting back the crackled brown vines that have seen the worst of the winter frost. Oh, my beloved Reader, how I love Spring! It arouses forever in me the feeling that I am sat on the cusp of a new world, and my lap exudes in all this breathlessness a fragrant and fertile purpose: an aching enticement for strawberries, red and succulent, that have yet to be born…  ♥♥♥

 

Reading The Seasons!

“… And, it is only and only ever, my True Love for YOU, as eternal as the unseen rocks that live beneath this very earth on which You walk on, and that I cannot see You from where I am, that can ever explain why Mr Billy, my adorable student, bursts out in a smile…”

Reading The Seasons!

“… I patted him on the cheek and told him he was a genius…”

 

Photography & Words: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | Winchester Discovery Centre Cityscape Gallery | Winchester | UK 2016

In 158 Words: I Can Fix That…

Old photographs embroidered in threads of new words and whose count equals to my height measurement in centimetres… ~ ~ ~ 

A few nights ago I dreamt of music. In an ordinary doorway I was stood looking down a vast corridor cast in amber hues and pervaded throughout was the vivid sense that here was my Autumn evening. Then, the silence was gone. A wave of velvet yearning carried on the soft plumes of the air, his beautiful Voice touched my skin. It was the call to prayer, and its words had not changed since the birth of stars. The chest of the mysterious muezzin contained a heart that was broken and thus his notes quivered and his throat was as dry as the dead grains of the desert. Fearlessly, I walked towards him and though I could not see his face, the robin-red ripples born out of his melody was no stranger to my Soul.  My arms crossed over my own chest, I carried two books for him so that he may believe in Good Magic once again… ♥♥♥

Once Upon A Time – Well, 30 Years Ago To Be Precise!

“… Shreds, rips and tears in the fabric of space-time are not in the remit of my resolving powers – so sorry to disappoint You my beloved reader! – however Abba’s “Miss Universe” always took comfort in the knowledge that she’d be a dab hand with the good old Sellotape…”


Please click on this link to view second book: 

http://www.birminghammuseums.org.uk/bmag/whats-on/birmingham-qur-an 

 

Photograph Originally Posted In: ‘Once Upon A Time – Well, 30 Years Ago To Be Precise!‘ | © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | UK 2016        
Words: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | UK 2016

We Prefer To Act Our Shoe Size! [UK SIZE 4/European 37]

Stripping off our Hagrid winter coats, with marmalade eyes we opened a classic book
Inside the shop we read aloud in front of an audience who cared to look
Words penned by a Doctor but not the usual one that stomps in status and charges a lot
He was a writer like me, eccentric and rhymer, riding altogether an alternative train of thought!
It was the one book, of clever word play, that we chose in the entire collection to read
And my sixth sense foretold me that this particular page that tells of succeed
Was the one to photograph, for it would inspire ‘Someone’ and whose tread has begun on a long journey
His Faith quivers at times I can sense, a quill in the wind, thus concern is he
And those numbers that You gaze across pages of green, not are they shoe sizes or our age
But they are my calling to You, chip those mutinous mountains in front, to crowbar that shadowy cage
Mark the words of this golden storyteller, whose Voice echoes with the triumph of an eternal Mother set free
37 is indeed my age and quotes of the same number I gift to thee… ♥♥♥

LINK: http://brightdrops.com/dr-seuss-quotes

 

We Prefer To Act Our Shoe Size!

“… Mark the words of this golden storyteller, whose Voice echoes with the triumph of an eternal Mother set free; 37 is indeed my age and quotes of the same number I gift to thee… “

Photography & Poetry: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | Winchester| UK 2015

The Birmingham Hobbit Troupe Proudly Presents: A Civil Rights Movement For The Advancement Of Colouring Crayons!

VOICE OF HOBBITS WINS: A CONGRATULATORY AFTERWORD!

The best part of being who I am is that my special contract with Destiny implies that I am in a rather delectable position to articulate the Voices of the very, ahem ahem, noisy! Today, a stupendous achievement was announced inside the British Music Hall of Fame as once more three Birmingham hobbits took centre stage and collected their award for Best Music Act From A FILM! No matter how anarchic the energy, I shall always seek to find an ingeniously subtle method by which to capture and channel untapped potential into more productive pursuits – Music is such an exemplary creature of that ilk and what meritorious maestros my three prove themselves to be tonight! Click on the link for further information but, I do add, be not swerved into scepticism by the photograph submitted by the BBC, for these three winners are indeed my three! Oh do stop laughing! One should not be so tightly preoccupied with self-image otherwise You miss out on shaking hands with Destiny… ♥

It is Fireworks Night in England so off I scoot to smile under a fantastical blaze of Technicolor Glory, it is as if the whole world is raising a celestial toast of colours to the winning VOICE of the most smallest, but not forgotten, creatures of a most beloved Middle Lands… :)) :)) :))

I love to A-MAZ-E You!
Always Your Mazzy xxx

BBC LINK: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/entertainment-arts-34748803

‘Into The West’ Soundtrack: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=shdiTRxTJb4

Dear Mr ……………………………………. ♥

Before You boldly initiate the sudden joyful upward shot into the stratosphere based on the quick draw assumption that all my numberless projects are tied up with string and neatly finished and that I return to my infrequent but consistent visitations to the virtual world as per normal then, with a deep sigh, I must hesitatingly tell You that I am still on scooter patrol with a trailing list of assignments that seems to grow longer the more I get through them! Logic was never my strong point and, well, what more can I say apart from that therein lies the reason for my strength! Giggle, giggle!

Yet, despite all the pickles and hurdles ahead the Fates have shoved a laptop beside me tonight and since my hard disk was in tow I am sticking out my cheeky tongue at Time whilst, with the legendary agility of a Ninja Panda, I accomplish a swift upload of one of a sequence of photographs I bagged up whilst I was on my Winter re-union mission in the Middle Land of Birmingham.

Bombarded with hobbits with furry feet and tankers of fizzy drinks strapped to their backs, the three notoriously hyper-witty chimps – no hyperbole I strenuously stress – whom Your eyes will become accustomed to in a few moments are the inventions of my cousin brothers. Sophiya (6 and 3 quarter years), ‘Harry’ Aryyan (just plain old 6 years) and ‘Ray Gun’ Rayyan (5 and a non-descript ‘bit’ years), are all plentifully endowed with the noise-making capacity that pompously can outdo the decibel accretions of the entire Industrial Revolution put together, whose itchy fingers are dangerously trigger happy so much so that adults take cover with combative quickness when pens are seen in their grasp, and let me not omit that these three could be said to have the power to relegate all alarm clocks to the bin since they are master cockerel imitators at 6am AND, THUS, they are in my eyes…… AMAZING! My kind of people all the way! I felt so comfortably at home with these shorter hobbits that they flawlessly distracted me from the lofty business of photography altogether! Who wants to click a button when there was the devious fun of creeping by the side of sofas to switch on the leg-rest button and give frightful jolts to unsuspecting elders sat down!? Ahem, ahem, why doth exude a mighty frown on thy face?! It is immeasurably hilarious, You must try it on Your granny! Ah, You at the back have ticked this one already! I always knew there were more prodigious punks out there than me! Giggle, giggle, toes a-wriggle!

I spent the very first Monday – 26/10/15 – channelling the anarchic energy of my three hosts into more productive pursuits, knowing that if I failed to actualise my objective the planet could potentially be forced to hurtle towards an early retirement, an extinction event to wipe out civilisation as we know it! Yikes! Thankfully, my natural reflexes as a teacher came into expeditious play and I had the three sprites under my spell soon enough. I inspired them to put on a garden art exhibition of posters that I had resourcefully brought with me from Winchester on which were Disney characters pre-drawn. Absent of colour and imprisoned within the glaring and monotonous canvas of black and white, as soon as Sophiya, Harry and Ray Gun laid their famished eyes on the images they leapt off the tables and chairs – the floor often found itself ignored from their footfalls – and pounced on my back and chest for COLOURING CRAYONS! Only God knows if I would have still enjoyed these fingers with which I type had I not prepared so efficiently and whacked out their demands with immediacy! And so what had been absent of the joy of colour, suddenly the characters came to vibrant life, but the story does not end there. Hardly!

To my ‘Man On The Moon’, yes, You! I sent You a fine brass Admiral telescope with a beautiful Helios spyglass and extendable telescopic sections earlier in the day that reached You on the wings of an altar of balloons. No need to fly solo my dear Fellow, it was so that I had felt in my heart on the day that I had set my three adorable accomplices this arty project that Destiny would intervene once more to connect You and I together. Use the telescope – or any Zoom function at Your disposal – to magnify the handwritten messages on each poster. It is sure to make You smile and giggle wherever You may be… :)) :)) :))

[MY MESSAGE TO YOU ON CHRISTMAS DAY: http://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/shakesonnets/section7.rhtml ]

Why do such A-MAZ-ING convergences of events happen between You and I? Because I am released from the preoccupations of my own image, and that is why I start to happen everywhere else…♥

In the Moonlight of my Abba & Allah I wish You Goodness, always and beyond always
Your Mazzy xxx

 

The Birmingham Hobbit Troupe Proudly Presents: A Civil Rights Movement For The Advancement Of Colouring Crayons! 1

“… Use the telescope – or any Zoom function at Your disposal – to magnify the handwritten messages on each poster. It is sure to make You smile and giggle wherever You may be… “

 

The Birmingham Hobbit Troupe Proudly Presents: A Civil Rights Movement For The Advancement Of Colouring Crayons! 2

“… No need to fly solo, it was so that I had felt in my heart on the day that I had set my three adorable accomplices this arty project that Destiny would intervene once more to connect You and I together…”

The Birmingham Hobbit Troupe Proudly Presents: A Civil Rights Movement For The Advancement Of Colouring Crayons! 3

“… And so what had been absent of the joy of colour, suddenly came to vibrant life…”

Photography & Words: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | Birmingham | Midlands | UK 2015  

A Trip To Long Barn Lavender Farm With Agnes & Suzi!

As is the sparkling tenacity of the humble spider to thrust out glittering and webbed lifelines to create the opportunity of acquiring new fruits, so it is that I believe the natural world, with pristine elegance, flings its invisible webs onto me, tying onto and pulling in my beating heart towards it so that I may lose myself in the ceaseless bounties of its sensual wonders. Having parted from my car many, many years ago and in its stead choosing to walk, plus complimented with my love for gardening, I am an excitable witness to the extraordinary ballet of the changing seasons. Often jumping up and down with the sprightly eagerness of a little girl as I rush about to announce to everyone that I have spotted the delicate petals of the first white snowdrop flower, the hopeful symbol of the cessation of winter and the dawn humming of spring, I have always been fascinated by the connection I share with Mother Nature. How to tell You of the countless times of how the observation of the hoppy red-breasted robin or the deep crimson eyes of holly berries put a merry skip in my step, desperate to put into words of what was seen into my diary entry for the day, how could one ever be tired of the natural world?! Lambs being born, chestnuts swaying in crisp autumn air and the heady scent of bonfires in November, I cannot be kept away from the stunning drama that continuously weaves in front of me when I step out of my front door. Magic is never more than an arm’s length away, if only – yes, if only – You are acrobatic of mind and willing to believe in it.

To this end, I invite You to my latest short-as-a-short-biscuit adventure! Can You guess the loudness of the fanfare that shook my ears to a happy jelly when my friend, Suzi, told me that she was going to take me and our mutual mate, Agnes, down to the Long Barn Lavender Farm in Alresford for a snippy pampering break away from our busy lives! Indeed, I WAS IN SEVEN HEAVEN!!!

Traditionally renowned for its medicinal properties as a calming herbal sedative, aiding restful sleep and soothing the nerves of those feeling a tad bit frayed, Lavender is one of my favourite flowers in the botanical world and I am pleased to say that I grow two varieties in my own garden from which I concoct handmade lavender and camomile teas, a perfect brew to be enjoyed iced in the summer or as a steamy beverage for when the long, cold, winter nights draw in, a perfect tipple just before bedtime. Should You ever come and visit me in my house I promise to host You with these delicious specimens – and will even pop a hand-sewn tiny sachet of lavender flowers in Your pocket to invoke calmness in times of difficulty.

It is a mild and tranquil fragrance and a most beloved friend in the floral kingdom. When we arrived I could make out its pleasant scent even before my visual faculties had a chance to make contact, as if the soul of something sublime and mysterious and yet familiar had leapt out of its physical cage to greet me! Wreaths of heart-shaped bundles of the flower and wide fields of its purple canopies opened up its pages before me, a profoundly exotic impression. I grew its relative in modest amounts back home, but here on the farm it was different. A Mecca of swaying purple heads, each a little pupil of scent that vied for my attention. I was humbled, terribly and beautifully humbled.

That is exactly the reason why, with majestic application of discipline, I refused to photograph any of the lavender flowers. Photography cannot impart the ecstasy that binds the olfactory domain, it must be felt in person otherwise You risk losing its authenticity to an unfair demotion. All three of us simply breathed in the sweetness of the earthly-bound purple clouds and vibrantly chatted over lavender tea, conveniently stratified with moist rich raspberry and lemon drizzle cake whilst wistfully looking out over fields and fields of floral spells that surely, in such vast quantities, I imagined to have the power to enchant an eternal sleep of peace for whomsoever fell into her heavenly scented bosom.

HOWEVER, photography was not strictly dismissed!

Whilst I was at Long Barn my aura was drawn to the energies of a few intriguing features that I believe are strongly of relevance or correlation to my beloved Reader. There is one particular Reader I wish to dedicate this story to, whom I saw in my dream last night – he handed me a gift that was messily but lovingly wrapped in purple, it was followed by a warm and wholesome hug that saw me waking up this morning with a smile that tasted accurately of the beauties of all the four seasons. For You today, allow me to profuse Your tired and weary Soul with the healing needles of a treasured purple flower… :)) :)) :))

Your Eternal Seamstress Of Pen & Flowers,
Mazzy xxx

“Ask a sincere gardener the magical ingredients that lie behind the wonderful theatre of lushness and growth that sees seeds turn into flowers and they will speak of the basic potions of Light, water and food, but then will edge closer and touch Your arm and, in an assured whisper, reveal that those things simply lend height and girth; only Friendship, the truest and unweatherable kind, will add an impossibly incomprehensible depth of colour, the God-hand whom painters tirelessly seek…”   

“It is absurd a misconception that one needs muscles – sorry – mussels to ride my favourite wheel-eyed invention, and for those of You suffering an abominable ‘total black out’ at the mind’s horizon, may I ardently suggest that, like the quirky example I am, You ought to pack Your bags and go off trotting, though by that I do not mean shifting from country to country. To see in Orange Vision You must brave new worlds, some of the most perilous frontiers do not exist on maps, they perniciously inhabit within us…”

“It is absurd a misconception that one needs muscles – sorry – mussels to ride my favourite wheel-eyed invention, and for those of You suffering an abominable ‘total black out’ at the mind’s horizon, may I ardently suggest that, like the quirky example I am, You ought to pack Your bags and go off trotting, though by that I do not mean shifting from country to country. To see in Orange Vision You must brave new worlds, some of the most perilous frontiers do not exist on maps, they perniciously inhabit within us…”  

“Like the festive mistletoe under which a kiss wanted is a kiss granted, inside the farm’s wooden-beamed barn, I secretly smiled under the lightbulb and wished that my Soulmate could leap through space and time and meet me at this spot. Dear ‘Paddington’, should You be reading this know that we do not have to wait for Christmas to exchange a kiss, any light fixture would be happily obliging to act as an intermediary, a hanging ball of sweet Orange marmalade to watch us as we bind lips together…”

“Like the festive mistletoe under which a kiss wanted is a kiss granted, inside the farm’s wooden-beamed barn, I secretly smiled under the lightbulb and wished that my Soulmate could leap through space and time and meet me at this spot. Dear ‘Paddington’, should You be reading this know that we do not have to wait for Christmas to exchange a kiss, any light fixture would be happily obliging to act as an intermediary, a hanging ball of sweet Orange marmalade to watch us as we bind lips together…”  

“I bought two items from the barn shop: Scented candles are a staple property of the ambience of my home in the long winter months, I light them from early evening until bedtime, often writing by their Light and whenever my eyes catch sight of its thin wispy flame I am reminded, with poetic fluency, that even in the most impenetrable depth of night, children of the Sun are by my side to guide my writing hand through the snow forests of white paper. The second of the items I saw in a dream, given to me by a Loving hand – he was terrible at wrapping but it was his inadequacy and effort that made it altogether more priceless…”

“I bought two items from the barn shop: Scented candles are a staple property of the ambience of my home in the long winter months, I light them from early evening until bedtime, often writing by their Light and whenever my eyes catch sight of its thin wispy flame I am reminded, with poetic fluency, that even in the most impenetrable depth of night, children of the Sun are by my side to guide my writing hand through the snow forests of white paper. The second of the items I saw in a dream, given to me by a Loving hand – he was terrible at wrapping but it was his inadequacy and effort that made it altogether more priceless…” 

“And, here is that mystery object which was concealed inside the wrapping. A square tea coaster bearing the charming illustration of someone whom I have an undying affection for rests on my bookshelf; I shall reserve Your own interpretative faculties to absorb the timelessness of the message…”

“And, here is that mystery object which was concealed inside the wrapping. A square tea coaster bearing the charming illustration of someone whom I have an undying affection for rests on my bookshelf; I shall reserve Your own interpretative faculties to absorb the timelessness of the message…”

Photography & Words: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | Long Barn Lavender Farm | Alresford | UK 2015

My New Writing Journal Arrives!

Hurrah, hooray it is National Poetry Day on the tiny green isle of the UK
And buy did I my new journal today, to heal my Readers far faraway!

A deep, flaky, chocolate bark pushes out of a lush tropic-leafed carpet
Rain-kissed emerald cloud puffs out on top, freedom minus parapet
Bellbirds, Firebirds, Finches swoop-slide, heartbeats fast, bright colours a-smile
Hear Mother Earth sing, her zest of Life a phoenix dream to bedazzle, beguile
And creatures of this first morning brush, from every corner of this teeming paradise
Gather in shrilly party to Tree Of Knowledge, no Devil lurks here in coiling disguise
For we Poets pen our every word in honeyed-remembrance of Pure Spirit and God
Seek we do not fame or fortune, to give flight to Art is a prayer, an applaud

Hurrah, hooray it is National Poetry Day on the tiny green isle of the UK
And buy did I my new journal today, to heal my Readers far faraway… :)) :)) :))

“Hurrah, hooray it is National Poetry Day on the tiny green isle of the UK
And buy did I my new journal today, to heal my Readers far faraway…”

Photography & Poetry: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | My Home | Winchester | UK 2015