How ‘Kebab Girl’ Met ‘Kebab Boy’: A Valentine Treat For You!

Her jet-black hair trailing down to her waist like a vertical night, on her head was flopped the cutest woollen hat, a bright and vivacious and startlingly delicious dome of orange that I had ever seen! Her porcelain skin glowed pristine white by the window light, a luminous star of snowflake that tugged in memories of days spent walking through a country lane on a glistening winter’s day. Meet Brogan, my softly-spoken and utterly sweet friend, who was eager to participate in my book project and thus we arranged to meet up in our usual corner of comfort inside the Winchester Library for a casual chatter and to follow it up with, of course, the shoot.

Stepping aside from her hectic University schedule without the slightest bit of unease or trouble, my darling Brogan was delighted at this rare invitation. Looking forward to speak out to her heart’s content about a book that had seen her fully immersed in its pages to the point that it had become an unputdownable object, Brogan sat down casually in her chair, but it was her widening smile that planted the hunch in my heart that she had brought with her more than a book. There was more, a gift – a goldmine of a tale – from her own life, and so grateful I would feel by listening to it that I would dedicate a prime portion of my storytelling canvas, initially assigned for Brogan’s book, to this other story instead.

Once again I rubbed my hands together, clenched my teeth down and breathed out long and hard. By now I had grown accustomed to losing myself in the joy of the not-knowing phase, those few and fleeting seconds before the book was slid out of the bag that were crucial and priceless. Those anticipatory seconds ought to receive some sort of an honorary farewell because I know only too well that once the book came out I would tread further forward, into a new world of old stories, of insights and awareness that I had never before come across of my friend.

As someone who is immediately attracted by the voice of colours, when Brogan took her book out I took an instant liking to the concoction of its paints that veneered across the front cover. To lay eyes on the colour teal is to float between the realm of the sea and the sky and the forest, it is an exceptional hue of blue that bristles with the secrecy of red and the earthen magic of green. I could marry this colour if it were possible! Giggle, giggle! A side profile of a figure lay in the centre of the cover, whose brain was littered with words spoken by the inner critic of the mind, seductively snaked in a red ribbon and on this was written the title of the book and the name of its celebrity author. This was no piece of fiction – the trend shown by every other friend that I had documented so far – and my attention spiked and piqued to the roof and I was fuelled to the full in want for starting my scrumptious inquisition!

Brogan, my darling, once again someone comes along with a book that I have not heard of! I am beginning to draw the conclusion that, in light of my extensive bookworm habits, there must be a force out there intent on ensuring that I come to meet books that I am meant to shake hands with for the first time!” I sat back in my chair rather content with my theory.

Mazzy, you would enjoy reading this. It has helped me to see the mind in a different way. Things make sense now.” Brogan’s smile told me with unassailable lucidity that she had really gleaned much from her readings of the text and I could almost make out the aura of the book’s winning content shimmering on the surface of her onyx eyes.

Ruby Wax, a major celebrity of broadcasting and the arena of British television, recently completed her studies in mindfulness – a practice of the mind that fosters living in the present moment – at Oxford University and out of that experience she chose to express her commitment to sharing her discovery with others through the vehicle of a book. Titled ‘A Sane New World, Taming The Mind’, Brogan explained to me that Ruby’s experience with the black dog of depression was in part exacerbated by the incessant and raucous babblings of her mind’s internal critic. A constant dark source of negative self-assessments, the inner faultfinder had marred much of Ruby’s life and relationships, and only after dedicating a genuine study in the area coerced her to realise at last that one could indeed master the cogwheels of one’s own mind, and that consequently mindfulness was one such path available to her.

It is really well-research, Mazzy and it has helped me, I can read it again if I wanted to.” Brogan wore a smile of simple satisfaction, the nicest evidence any book could gift a person of its enduring presence that reaches out far beyond the pages and cover alone. I did not verbalise it at the time, but I wished that I could have added into my conversation with Brogan about how amazing it would have been if Ruby could have taken up a second course that explored the brains of eccentrics and geniuses. As like a cheeky shadow that defies the imprisonment of comprehension, an understanding of the workings of my own brain remains a mystery to myself. I am not sure if I would want to crack the code that I am, I rather let someone else do it! There is a definitive element of fun in that, wouldn’t You say?! Giggle, giggle!

And this is where the plot fantastically thickens into double cream! I wish to extend a congratulatory applaud to that part of the brain responsible for making us go off on a happy tangent to something completely unrelated and off topic to what was originally on the agenda. That is what happened exactly. Brogan’s book opened the gateway for her to recite to me her tales of her school years and then onto current years and the tricky business that was of adjusting to University life. However, in the midst of choppy waters, Destiny had something else in store for my young friend.

Taming the mind was one thing, taming the heart another, a dimension that was not to be the province of manuals and study. Behind the window of Brogan’s book that promoted the concept of the sane mind lay a mischievous love story that took place one insane November night. Would You like to hear about? Of course You do, if You lean anymore towards me with those enlarged ears I may have to whack You with the fly-squatter! Giggle, giggle!

Shall I begin?

The rain whipped up into a frenzy of sharp blades and the cold night air merciless on the skin, on that fateful November darkness all that busied on Brogan’s mind was the hunger that had suddenly clenched her tummy tight and she determinedly began to ready herself to grab a quick-fix burger from ‘Subway’ on Southgate Street, Winchester. An interesting premises only for me insofar that next door, around the corner, was a flat whose rooms were once penned into the twists of great detective story by none other than Sir Arthur Conan Doyle! Can You guess the name of that beloved detective of mine? Giggle, giggle!

Ahem, ahem, I better return to Brogan’s story! Apologies for the digression, it is a symptom of the staggering polymathic habits of my mind!

Where were we? Ah, yes! Brogan was a stone’s throw away from subduing the manic onset of hunger, however, it was thwarted by the overpowering doggedness of her friend who made it very clear that the best way to alleviate the disgruntled state of one’s tummy was to launch into the kebab shop on Stockbridge Road and gorge one of their meaty creations! Brogan was reluctant to go with her friend, she ached for a ‘Subway’ burger, and so began a tug-of-war series of comical argumentations. Brogan insisted to me at this point that she gave in to her friend’s demands because only for the sheer reason that she had no more energy left in her to sustain her legal fight for the burger! Off to the kebab house it was!

The two girls rushed inside to the kebab joint and the pungent smell of chips and rich strips of meat had them entranced, though not quite completely under the spell of the food, for Brogan noticed in the corner a young man with his skateboard. He was with his friend who seemed to be interested in the same hobby. She felt a tingle and then a spark for the young gentleman and her tomboy spirit re-enlivened inside her heart, the days as a skateboarder when she was a young girl flashed into her mind and, knowing fully well it would be improper, she was overcome by the desire to approach him. She decided she would risk it. Telling her friend to go over to him and give her number, Brogan looked away and said that she would be in the taxi waiting for her.

Moments later her friend jumped into the taxi and her face had swollen up with excitement and a cheerful sort of madness, she was bursting to hand out the fantastic news. “Did you know what he said when I gave him your number?!

Brogan, feeling tender and slightly faint, replied, “Oh god, what did he say?

He asked me if the number belonged to you, the girl with the beautiful tattoo on her leg!!!” The friend was on the verge of bouncing out of the moving vehicle, she had worked herself into a twister of commotion!

He noticed my tattoo! Oh my god!” What a nice feeling it was, she thought, that her mystery gentleman had remembered the small details about her and that, like her, he too was aroused by her presence.

As the taxi sped into the night, Brogan’s phone buzzed out of the blue and she reached out to hold it and read the message. The words, short and to the point, shuddered the very soft foundations of her heartbeat, reawakening it to the frightening and equally adventurous prospect that this could the commencement of a new chapter that entwined her name with another.

Hey there ‘Kebab Girl’, how are you?” This chap had a cheeky sense of humour and she liked that very much. The power of the kebab pulsating in her tummy, Brogan swiftly typed in a reply, brief but with enough charge and character to set the ball rolling!

Hello ‘Kebab Boy’, I am good!

And so it was that Mr Leo and Miss Brogan eventually mustered up the courage to meet and they hit it off straightaway, and even to this day they laugh about it, their warm giggles laced with the nostalgia of old couples who when they look back lovingly they appreciate that it was the smallest of things that were the miniature masterminds that led up to that pivotal first time when two eyes, stranger’s eyes, met. This is how whole worlds change without anyone else knowing about, and how the most meaningful of histories are the ones that never make it to the books…

Coincidentally, on my way home today, Mr Robin once more jumped in front of me on the pavement and, alas, there was no one around to witness what was becoming a regular rendezvous with my feathered friend, but I paused and admired him nevertheless. I wish I could have knelt down and have him hop into my snow white palm, to stroke his red coat and relate to him that all this time in my life I regarded kebabs as greasy batons of ugliness, but thanks to Brogan’s story, I finally consoled myself and accepted that even a silly foodstuff as a dodgy looking kebab could become Destiny’s instrument to bring one closer to their skater gentleman! Hey, Mr, does the restaurant You wander in and out of everyday have kebabs on their menu? Just asking! Giggle, giggle!

Ketchirp, ketchirp”, my Mr Robin tweeted with a sweet accent of honey and moss, and then he leapt up to the top of the wooden fence, wriggled his bottom, and proceeded to dart and fly. I do believe his intentions were fixed in the direction of my garden… ♥♥♥

How ‘Kebab Girl’ Met ‘Kebab Boy’

“… To lay eyes on the colour teal is to float between the realm of the sea and the sky and the forest, it is an exceptional hue of blue that bristles with the secrets of red and the earthen magic of green…”

How ‘Kebab Girl’ Met ‘Kebab Boy’

“… Her jet-black hair trailing down to her waist like a vertical night, on her head was flopped the cutest woollen hat, a bright and vivacious and startlingly delicious dome of orange that I had ever seen…”

How ‘Kebab Girl’ Met ‘Kebab Boy’

“… Brogan’s book opened the gateway for her to recite to me her tales of her school years and then onto the current years and the tricky business that was of adjusting to University life. However, in the midst of choppy waters, Destiny had something else in store for my young friend…”

How ‘Kebab Girl’ Met ‘Kebab Boy’

“… I wished that I could have added into my conversation with Brogan about how amazing it would have been if Ruby could have taken up a second course that explored the brains of eccentrics and geniuses…”


Photography & Words: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | Winchester | UK 2016

Christmas Month Puzzle Box 15: On The Matter Of The Awesome Proton Beam Retaliation Against L’Oréal’s “You’re Worth it!” Campaign!

The sumptuously thick pastries of mince pies dusted with minute sprinkles of sugar glistened before us as did the seductive aroma of freshly siphoned mulled wine laced with its conjugal slice of citrus heaven – a smile of soaked orange – and I was made to feel like I had touched the first clouds of festive heaven because after a very long time I was in the company of two of my very, merry, berry best friends! Christmas time is a roost of a goldmine in my eyes, not for the presents or the shopping frenzy, but for the delicious imminence of reunions and when such meetings occur, especially if they have been agonisingly overdue, anyone looking upon our gatherings will inevitably conclude that they have been quite generously blessed to witness a hobbitina – yes, that would be me – wildly dancing in the throes of jumping joyfulness, as if I had stumbled across the greatest treasure ever come into possession! I love to bring friends together, to catch-up on time that has passed without having seen each other, to share interesting and funny and tender stories with the edifying licence of facial and gestural trimmings that no amount of social media could ever replicate.

So, let me tell You of who I had the ineffable pleasure of hanging out with in the last few days!

You have met Agnes before in my previous stories where we diligently and excitedly explored islands beyond the mainland of England. A Polish beauty in heart, a linguist in aspiration and a face as adorably radiant so as to comply beyond satisfactory levels with the stringent prerequisites of cuteness required by all of Santa’s elfin helpers! Giggle, giggle!

My other very good friend is Chiara who grew up in Michigan and is of German heritage. Since she has lived in America for most of her life, her definition of the word “naughty” was obviously more saucy and bawdy than the more child-friendly original that we British have preserved, hence every time I used the word in her presence – which is very common for a teacher of course –  she would lift an eyebrow worryingly, and only the Lord Almighty knows what thoughts of deepest concern must have shaken her from within to see a respectable lady like myself on occasion blurt out a word that is highly rude in the rudimentary ears of an American! Giggle, giggle! Thankfully, she trusted me enough to muster up a vortex of courage to investigate further what on earth was going on in my head. I laughed out so loud when she told me of her hilarious confusions that I had to make a rapid beeline for the loo! My bladder duties were on the verge of its biggest compromise but I managed to recompose myself, and thus I began to infuse her on the matter of how this particular word had an altogether more harmless meaning within the kingdom of British vocabulary! Whenever we now meet the first thing I say with proud affirmation, as if announcing the battle cry to advance troops to a newly opened shop dedicated to the selling of Haribos is, “Chiara, you have been a very naughty girl!” She giggles and blushes and obliges me oh so neatly by agreeing that she has indeed been a naughty poppet! It is all classic humour between us girls and I do not think that it will ever fade away, even in the days when we will be sprouting silvery hairs on our head and whizzing round the streets with our granny trolleys loaded with our respective granddad husbands! Giggle, giggle!

As You can gather by now we three ladies are endowed with the force-field prowess to deflect the gremlins of dullness from any party suffering from the hex of boredom, simply put, we know how to create shenanigans that lift the spirits and re-paint smiles on faces that have become close to forgetting what such a thing is! Tonight I offer such a sassy portrait of my two beloved chums, with a sleight of hand element thrown in for good measure and I am sure that by now You will want to know eagerly what I mean by that!

Since I am of tomboy construction, one of the most irritating adverts that plummets my telly now and again into a self-destructive buckling up and sizzle is that of the notoriously hideous L’Oréal hair product campaign. Celebrity women with CGI hair and CGI face paste the screen with their locks claiming that the brand could make Your hair look like something that (unfortunately) came out of the Disney windpipe! Hideous and enormously sleep-inducing, my inventive mind wished to combat the sulphuric acidity of these promotions of ultimate deception, deceivingly storm-trooped out of the Dark Side of the West’s capitalistic nature.

From under my sleeve I whip out a comical twist of my own!

Do not let a pink shampoo bottle decide whether “You are worth it!” – or not, for that matter! In other words, dear Reader, do not let the ownership of any sort of external material object become the barometer by which You judge whether You are a worthy giant, human or hobbit. I might have saved money, day and night, for a new camera, yet do not for a second be fooled into assuming that my identity and status rests with this device. It does not. I can live without it. But I cannot live without my imagination.
The things in life that ought to matter are the things that are invested with the magical persistence to exist as echoes in the river of eternity. That which can be packaged or price-tagged and for which the men and women of this world are willing to plunder and ambush are the fleeting illusions of a floating world. Their worth is defined on the competitive plane and the Soul does not speak such a language.

Love and Friendship, two very modestly small words but when they find You in life they angelically remould the world so that it grows inwards, a slow imploding blossom, comfortably smaller, a world whose borders are canvased by the person or people in front of You. I have Faith that You shall see the integrity of these thoughts of mine brilliantly captured in the photograph that I present to You, where the smooth, flowing locks of these maiden friends of mine send out a cheeky but noble proton beam of retaliation against the monster machine of corporative bewitchment, a gentle bit of advertising on our part that sparkles with defiance the message that some things in this short life of ours are worth the battle because, at the end of Eternity, they are “worth it”… ♥♥♥

LINK [Chewie Rallies To Our Cause!]: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_U9fEv1ld8A

Christmas Month Puzzle Box 15: On The Matter Of The Awesome Proton Beam Retaliation Against L’Oréal’s “You’re Worth it!” Campaign!

“… Love and Friendship, two very modestly small words but when they find You in life they angelically remould the world so that it grows inwards, a slow imploding blossom, comfortably smaller, a world whose borders are canvased by the person or people in front of You…”


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

My Mumsy’s Veil Catches & Lifts Up All Hearts!

If Your powers of remembrance and observation serve You well then You may succeed in recalling that in my post entitled, ‘Garden Party With Alice’, I took the liberty of utilising the phrase ‘triangulation of elements’ to refer to the handsome bounties ripe and shimmering inside my garden – including the fruit trees and a certain White Rabbit – and whose availability led them to be literally picked on the occasion to enhance the storytelling rationale of the shoot. I proceeded to assert that the eccentricity of my methods and style of photography was always underscored by an atmosphere of fun, the ‘very, merry, berry’ sort!  In euphoric leaps that would drive a bunny rabbit back into its puny hole I am thrilled to tell You that today yet another garden party vivaciously took centre stage at our Home and this time my good friend, Sachi, was also present, whom I do fear might have left the house in an unfashionably drunken state after I lost count in my servings of the newest tea that is making headlines in my pantry – a coconut, lychee and green tea mixture! Giggle, giggle!

Anyway, my anticipatory Reader, while my friend and I engrossed ourselves with a healthy catch-up of news, my Mumsy sneaked out towards the back of the garden and using her Veil she began to pick the bulbously and juicy green pears, each yearning to reach the platter of a table so that they may feel their untapped sweetness on the tongue of the merrymaker. As she did so it dawned on me that my Mumsy was the epitome of the Soul of the Giver, to share whatever fell in her lap was the singular feed by which she could ever hope to touch the bright sensation of happiness.

After Mumsy had picked the choicest berries, pears and the heart and affections of yet another friend entering into her aura of Motherly Love – which is very lucidly blatant in the purest bliss that so gorgeously blossoms on Sachi’s face – I soon came across another extraordinary ‘triangulation of elements’. Posted by an astronomy page on Facebook today, there it was, beautifully resonating the cosmic universality of the message that a Mother’s Veil forever seeks to pick happiness and lift up the spirits of all those whom she devotes her heart to… :)) :)) :))

LINK: https://www.facebook.com/AstronomyPictureOfTheDay/photos/a.149744531727683.22546.147511511950985/878072975561498/?type=1&theater

“… my Mumsy was the epitome of the Soul of the Giver, to share whatever fell in her lap was the singular feed by which she could ever hope to touch the bright sensation of happiness…”

“… Mumsy had picked the choicest berries, pears and the heart and affections of yet another friend entering into her aura of Motherly Love – which is very lucidly blatant in the purest bliss that so gorgeously blossoms on Sachi’s face….”

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

La Voie De Bijou De Paris (The Trinket Streets Of Paris)

Diary 6: La Voie De Bijou De Paris (The Trinket Streets Of Paris)

My most admired secret Spy and Reader, hark Your memory back to those few posts of the past in which I drew – without any grown-up inhibitions – comparisons between myself and that of the little explorer who took a fantastic dive in a rabbit hole only to find herself in a whole new world whose natural grain was of the most unnatural order.  Her name, of course, was Alice and the world that I speak of is Wonderland.  A firm resident of my ever-swelling library at home, Alice and I are carbon copies of each other, we do not have a hope in the world to survive without some sort of adventure under our sleeves! The air we breathe is second to our first priority in Life: To actively seek out knowledge and to share it out to others so that it births sunshine in whomsoever chances upon it.

If You have not had the supreme pleasure of reading Lewis Carrol’s masterpiece then I suggest You get off Your horse and make a run for the nearest bookshop now, for the significance of the photograph that I present to You this evening will only become clear and resonant if You are learned in the story that pulses backstage.

Once again You squirm and coil in tortuous anguish. What on earth is she babbling about now, You huff out! Your mind has already leapt to the monochrome photograph of the street stall stacked with artistic collectables, and the posters hang as if they were clothes left out to be dried by the sun or, for the photographically orientated eye, You might liken the scene to an outdoor red room! Well, the story was that I happened to have splintered away from my siblings somewhere over the River Seine, my senses exuberantly infatuated by the many streets-side stalls crazed with trinkets of all shapes and sizes. Dusty old covers of LPs, vintage books whose smells would require new adjectives, and film prints of pivotal films from the sea of noir that is French cinema. All fluttered in the breeze, but ONE, yes ONE, poster found me. IT found me and not the other way round. Le Corbeau translates as ‘The Raven’, the plot synopsis is rather sinister and macabre and I had never heard of it but that was not why it peers out so prominently in this photograph. It shone with singular energy because I knew in my gut – in my tummy – that it would serve me well in the future. Literally! You see, in Alice In Wonderland, a notoriously famous and world class riddle is cited by the Mad Hatter to Alice for which she cannot reply with an answer.

The riddle is as follows: “Why is a raven like a writing desk?”

I shall now prove to You that Magic does walk with me. A nonsensical riddle will always refuse a smooth and uncluttered consensus however if You click on the link below and read the first line in the main box that begins with ‘The answer..’ , the chances are that You will either sink in a puddle inundated by tears of joy, or burn Your bubble cheeks in ravishing strawberry blushes! Whichever it is, be prepared to undergo an over-reactive explosion, in an INSTANT…  :))

LINK: http://www.wisegeek.org/why-is-a-raven-like-a-writing-desk.htm

P.S. Say CHEESE….! :)) :)) :))

The Trinket Streets Of Paris

“It shone with singular energy because I knew in my gut – in my tummy – that it would serve me well in the future. Literally!”

Photography & Words: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | Near Saint-Michel| Paris | France 2015

A Painting Of Our Class: Miss Garlic, Mr Garlic And Seven Naughty Ones!

Imagination knows no limits with this adorable student of mine
By heart she can recite the songs of Disney’s ‘Frozen’ line by line!
In our Special Ed class, on the last day of college, she set diligently to task
Breathing animation on paper, a portrait of paints: our faces in mask
We all grow out from green grass as like the pure bodies of garlic, a smiling army
Included in the frame is Miss Garlic – and that of course would be me!
My student, cheeky as she is, drew in a Mr Garlic, my Love yet to materialise
And loyally in suit follow seven little naughty ones, You do realise
That they refer to the students although I predict Mr Garlic would interpret differently
Wishing me to be mother to his seven children unconditionally!
What an incorrigible rascal my husband is! What a crook, what a fool!
Yet in this humble heart of mine he kisses the walls of my throbbing school
Ah, one last thing before I scoot, the wave of blue in the sky is not what you think
Rather, proof repeats again that our Destinies are irrefutably in sync:
It is the flutter of a deep blue cape belonging to the real Mr Garlic who is out somewhere
And that is why next to my adorable student I have left him an empty chair… :))

BREAKING NEWS – BREAKING NEWS – BREAKING NEWS: My preeminent and artistic student described in the aforementioned poem and shown below displays a penchant for applying the white canvas to a constructive LOAD of colours. The final effect is a pleasure to the eyes, I am sure you will agree on this. I regret to inform everyone that the same cannot be said about Mr Garlic, my imaginary husband, who seems to have picked up a very unhealthy habit of UPLOADING socks into the washing machine and, worse still, singing about them in the most dreadfully out-of-pitch voice! Dear Garlic ji, I know Your heart is white and so You wish to see the same degree of cleanliness in Your apparel but, honestly, leave the socks to me! Giggle, giggle… :))

LINK: https://www.facebook.com/zoomtv/photos/a.10152176046864123.1073741862.81147439122/10153400984839123/?type=1&theater

A Painting Of Our Class: Miss Garlic, Mr Garlic And Seven Naughty Ones!

“… We all grow out from green grass as like the pure bodies of garlic, a smiling army
Included in the frame is Miss Garlic – and that of course would be me…”

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

Diaries Of An Island Girl: Meera’s Immortal Love

Susie, Agnes and I all share age-old familial ties with the earthen ways of the farmer. It is an ancestral story whose flavour runs through our veins and anyone who is a stranger will come to realise very quickly that our passion for growing life into the soil, to nurture and watch it expand and blossom, and then to lay the hard-earned fruits of our labour onto the family table to be shared out, is a pleasure that is rooted deep and shall never be erased, even as our bodies grow old into the time that lies ahead. So, how could the three of us even dare not to visit the Isle of Wight’s most delectable initiative – The Garlic Farm!

Good old Mrs Boswell, 50 years ago, harvested the first bulb here and ever since that modest but monumentally significant enterprise, her vision has flourished in more ways than one! On this cute little farm, nestled adjacent to the Arreton Valley, garlic is grown, harvested and plaited. Colourful arrays of chutneys, relishes and condiments are on offer to sizzle your tastebuds so that you are left to force yourself to re-appreciate the beauty and power of this tiny little aromatic lady, reputed for healing the sick and regenerating the fatigued, who grows in the darkest dungeons of the earth and yet never is her purity stained…  :))

Oh yes, the photograph I submit for you today does seem a far departure from the aforementioned topic but nothing is of irrelevance! You see, dear reader, whilst I was walking along the tractor trail, a very special Technicolor visitor decided to cross my path and he seemed to be completely at ease in front of my lens. How very peculiar, you may ask in frowned befuddlement! I was rather keen on the theory that someone, somewhere, had taken it upon himself to brighten up my day more than it already was – a feathered light bulb to a white lady who spends far too much of her time under the black hijabi cloak of the night…

Diaries Of An Island Girl: Meera’s Immortal Love

“… I was rather keen on the theory that someone, somewhere, had taken it upon himself to brighten up my day more than it already was – a feathered light bulb to a white lady who spends far too much of her time under the black hijabi cloak of the night… “

 

Photography & Words:  © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | The Garlic Farm|Newchurch| Isle Of Wight 2015

Blueberries: My Midnight Lord’s Rosary Beads

I am stood in the lush pea-green sea of my garden bathed in June evening light
The profuse blush jasmine star-flowers rushes exotic scents to my twilight
Passions that signify my Dark Lord and impelled my ankletless feet become
To hurry like a Hajji towards my beloved blueberry Shaam

His leaves are little, tear dropped, halcyon of delicateness
His berries, vestibules of blue-black sweet mightiness
As if each were a nighthawk blessed in a rosary bead
Each a leather-tan flesh seeking Meera’s desirous feed

After flash rinsing my handpicked midnight stowaways
I sit in the kitchen and the jasmine plays
And settles on my wooden tray of berries, a smile wets my fair unkissed face
To know for surety that in a second or two He will melt into my space…

Blueberries: My Midnight Lord's Rosary Beads

“… Passions that signify my Dark Lord and impelled my ankletless feet become
To hurry like a Hajji towards my beloved blueberry Shaam…”

Photography & Poem: Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | Handpicked Blueberries From My Garden | Winchester | UK 2014

The Enchantments Of Being A Visual Storyteller

Without expending too many words or labyrinthine explanations, I humbly slide this photograph of mother and child before you and with a fond smile, the sort only reserved for old friends, I tell you, “This is why I have no time to take Selfies…”

Sincerest respect to all visual storytellers who sought their reflections in the souls of others, in the hearts of flowers… :))
Your humblest Magic Maker, Mazzy x 

The Enchantments Of Being A Visual Storyteller

“… This is why I have no time to take Selfies…”

Photograph & Words: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | Winter Reunion Series | 2015

My Dream Team: Brazil, Argentina and Orange Sunshine!

I am an elfin orb, bejewelled in the murmurs of twinkling marigolds
I am a honey-glazed sultanate, battlement of tangy armadas untold
I am the golden mistress of earthen vines, envy of treasures laden in honeycombs
I am the dimple-cratered firefly, exiling dull taste-lords from tongue’s memory tombs
I am the source of your coronation when you embalm me in your hands
I am the secondary heat in your body’s shifting sands
Whenever your thoughts laze on me from where you are
In my whitewashed room I become a czar of summer
Oh – and please be gentle as you peel my skin’s armour… (Wink of eye!)

My Dream Team: Brazil, Argentina and Orange Sunshine!

“… I am the golden mistress of earthen vines, envy of treasures laden in honeycombs
I am the dimple-cratered firefly, exiling dull taste-lords from tongue’s memory tombs…”

Photography & Words: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | An Orange Ode To The Summer Solstice | My Home | Winchester | 2014

My Sister Of The Heart: The Biscuit Thief!

Skin as fair as the prized possession of royals, a pretty porcelain doll
Eyes of sibylline seashells that echo the sea siren’s call
But, my dear friends, what I love most about this little but tall sister of mine
Is that she often steals my biscuits and leaves my plate with a rude minus sign…!!!

The Biscuit Thief

“Skin as fair as the prized possession of royals, a pretty porcelain doll…
Eyes of sibylline seashells that echo the sea siren’s call…”

Photographs & Poem: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | Winchester UK 2015