Where The Wild Grasses Grow

I want wild grasses that grow there to know of our red-hot heat
I want to vanish into You, only watched on by the ocean’s cool blue pleat…

EPILOGUE: As a limb is to the body so it is that my notebook and fountain pen never leave my side on my travels. I do not own a Smartphone armed with textual apps, only a basic mobile phone, however my limitation is a purposeful one, a joyful idiosyncratic trademark of my poetic methods, for only when I am sensually in contact with paper does the Voice of my heart consent to its manifestation in the visible world. I wrote the aforementioned two lines of poetry as I lay on the grass, listening in on the ocean bringing news onto my silky skin, telling me of a Love who does the same on his side. Fiendishly hidden amid grasses and grasshoppers, WHO is he…? :))

LINK: https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10156057178515413&set=gm.670676053031821&type=1&theater

Where The Wild Grasses Grow

“… I want wild grasses that grow there to know of our red-hot heat
I want to vanish into You, only watched on by the ocean’s cool blue pleat… “

Photography, Poetry & Words: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | Herm Island | Channel Islands 2014

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Diaries Of An Island Girl: Your Seamstress Of The Seas

On the request of a very special Friend of mine I am re-posting this diary entry chronicling my adventure to an enchanting maritime kingdom, whose land was unfamiliar and new, and yet I fell into its arms with the readiness of a homeward pilgrim. I know YOU will shudder a smile as You open the Link below containing the latest post from the island: I had stood at this very playground, but tonight, a great spinning temple ringed in red has arisen, as if by Magic… :))

LINK: https://www.facebook.com/VisitTheNeedles/photos/a.1015665945151433.1073741908.172664322784937/1016709061713788/?type=1&theater

‘Lost – sorry – Lot’s Wife’
Mazzy x

I am the daughter of an island nation. The British isles may not have conjured into existence my ancestral line but she is my Mother nevertheless and I have become of the belief that it is her jagged hemline of rocky coasts reaching in every direction, ragingly glossed over by the force of the ocean’s voice in the form of tidal waves, that is the explanation behind why my heart is forever a magnet towards the kingdoms of the sea. Like a helpless silver fish that squirms and wriggles in the fisherman’s net in the futile attempt to free itself, I, too, cannot be landlocked for too long a time and must seek out the tasty alertness of salty air, the noisy shrills of wayward gulls, the avarice of wet sands and the mysterious plaits of algae before my soul succumbs to stagnation.  It is as though my spirit only agreed to occupy human form on the condition that in life it may seek out its borderless essence in the infinite watery mirrors of the seas.

The present photo-diary is but an abridged version of a recent expedition to an island off the coast of southern England. Famed for its boat building history, its fair pull of poets and writers, and the once location of Queen Victoria’s summer palace, the Isle of Wight is a diamond-shaped island that floats quite happily on Channel waters. The geographical signatures one is struck by immediately upon coming here are the sight of windswept majestic cliffs, some made of coarse stones whereas others are sandy and soft. They rise as far as the eye can see and, if you are observant enough, you might even be lucky enough to spot the fossilised remains of dinosaur bones, the island is an indisputable haven for budding palaeontologists!

The most famous landmark on the Isle of Wight and the first Susie, Agnes and myself were determined to venture towards is called ‘The Needles’. Situated on the western coast, these comprise of three pillars of chalk that defiantly rise out of the sea, not at all far from Alum Bay. There is an adorable Lighthouse on the outer end of the formation and I would have dearly loved to climb it and look out from its top window, pretending to guide the lost out at sea back to the comforting embrace of the shore. For those with an appetite for history, you may be intrigued to know that there is a fourth ‘needle’ called ‘Lot’s Wife’ but it collapsed in a ferocious storm in 1764. Ironically, it is this submerged rock that shares the strongest resemblance to a needle rather than the three that are visible to the eye. Lot, himself, is a biblical figure, cited in both Christianity and Islam, venerated as a prophet and messenger of God.

As I silently stood on the edge of the grassy hill overlooking The Needles I felt as though I had come one step closer to solving the mystery of why my heart was so persistently drawn to the abstruse beauty of the sea. Is there a needle out there, below the hidden blue depths that once belonged to me, whose powers are pen-like and curative? And then it came to me, in slow hushes, in sweet trickles, the memory that indeed such a magical needle was mine and that no matter where I found myself in the world I, the Seamstress of the people, could always entrust Mother Nature to hear my prayers and awaken life into my needle, letting it twirl and stitch and send off gifts to those for whom a smile is a treasure long-awaited…  :))

Diaries Of An Island Girl: Your Seamstress Of The Seas

“… I, the Seamstress of the people, could always entrust Mother Nature to hear my prayers and awaken life into my needle, letting it twirl and stitch and send off gifts to those for whom a smile is a treasure long-awaited… “

 

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

Diaries Of An Island Girl: Would You Care For A Lift?

Our trio troupe ascended upwards: soft-sandy mountain high
Afraid of heights, our Susie, she held my arm with one closed eye
I was in my element, though, refusing to hold the bar
How could fear overwhelm me? I am the Evening Star!
Spectacular, spectacular the views of seductive backbones of land
Agnes, in front, knew the drill like the back of her hand
Adventurers we are, new worlds give us life supreme
And I, the Seamstress, on this occasion saw a helpless frayed seam
For below on ground I saw echoes of my long-lost Love
He on track-lines lost, dried skin, feet wouldn’t shove
I could not allow this, not under my watch at any cost
So with my healing ball-point pen, I blessed and then I tossed
Its nib kissed the chairlift in front, turned its colours into Bangladesh
Pierced a hole in Coca-Cola, released forth waters cool and fresh
Down gushed my magic waters, cleansed my Love, he’s back on track in Life
He smiles from afar, a Victory achieved – I am his eternal wife
Oh – and winning the ball is so important to him, a loopy fan of cricket
Thus I gifted Bangladesh to win today, it won by 2 + 5 = 7 wicket!

Note. [I was sat facing chair ‘Red 25’… Giggle, giggle!]

Diaries Of An Island Girl: Would You Care For A Lift?

“… Its nib kissed the chairlift in front, turned its colours into Bangladesh
Pierced a hole in Coca-Cola, released forth waters cool and fresh…”

Photography & Poetry:  © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories |The  Needles Amusement Park | Isle Of Wight 2015

 

Diaries Of An Island Girl: Reveries On The Wings Of Coastal Zephyr

The fierce midday sun beating calypso drums on our backs and a car desperately in need of a breather, for it was as hot inside as to be perfectly suitable for boiling an egg, Susie decided it was high time for a pit-stop before marching on with our road trip down to Ventnor on the southern tip of the island. Maybe it is in the fibre of my genetics, the non-negotiable inheritance left by my warmer clime ancestors which makes me so superbly immune to even the most oppressive of heatwaves. To everyone’s amusement and envy I simply thrive and transform into a skipping hobbit of carousing frolics when the temperature shoots to cosmic levels – with tea in hand of course! Duh!

Somewhere along the picturesque coastal path between The Needles and Brighstone Bay, we pulled over and leapt out of the car, falling straight into the arms of a most refreshingly intoxicating coastal breeze, a zephyr that must have up until now been saved in someone’s dreams and only unleashed for the very first time on our long locks. My black gypsy hair was unruly as ever so I silenced its disobedience by tying it up in a bun and, oh my, the back of my neck was deceived for a second that it had been kissed by the seductive eyes of a distant lover.

Three girls stood facing the Atlantic Ocean and a country road emblazoned with glorious Technicolor dreams cast in the guise of wildflowers and green grass, this was a place time forgot on purpose so that people like us would remember it at a later date, penned within a personal sphere of words or perhaps shared with friends over delicious tea and cake. I am abundantly blessed by Destiny to have it lead me down such palatial routes of natural beauty whose perfume I can still envision in colours thanks to my synesthetic palette of senses.

Agnes and Susie are casually poised to the left of the frame but, dear reader, you cannot pull back your pondering as to why my eyes linger to the right? For whom does my red-red heart faithfully wait for? For whose footfall does the dusty footpath anticipate? I had once revealed to you that I do not appear in photographs in the orthodox manner. If your heart is true you will naturally realise that to see me you must decipher my cheeky presence in other ways, and if you do so successfully, by golly, you shall see me! A glowing mascot of sun and sunflowers, Yellow is the colour of my Home and, as is obvious as crystal, both my good friends are in possession of it! I did not tell them to bring Yellow with them but I am confident to conjecture that Destiny had a hand to play in this. Does it not seem to you that they have become as like two loyal representatives of my Yellow homestead, on guard duty at the end of the footpath, ready to welcome the weary traveller who so clearly wears my red-red heart…?

I dedicate this photo story to someone I have yet to meet, for although I appear before him hidden, he is masterful in his Vision and sees me more clearly than I could ever possibly see myself… :))

For me, From You:  
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lHtJDfgRJKo 

Diaries Of An Island Girl: Reveries On The Wings Of Coastal Zephyr

“… Does it not seem to you that they have become as like two loyal representatives of my Yellow homestead, on guard duty at the end of the footpath, ready to welcome the weary traveller who so clearly wears my red-red heart… “

 

Photography & Words:  © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories |Brighstone Bay | Isle Of Wight 2015

Diaries Of An Island Girl: Your Seamstress Of The Seas

I am the daughter of an island nation. The British isles may not have conjured into existence my ancestral line but she is my Mother nevertheless and I have become of the belief that it is her jagged hemline of rocky coasts reaching in every direction, ragingly glossed over by the force of the ocean’s voice in the form of tidal waves, that is the explanation behind why my heart is forever a magnet towards the kingdoms of the sea. Like a helpless silver fish that squirms and wriggles in the fisherman’s net in the futile attempt to free itself, I, too, cannot be landlocked for too long a time and must seek out the tasty alertness of salty air, the noisy shrills of wayward gulls, the avarice of wet sands and the mysterious plaits of algae before my soul succumbs to stagnation.  It is as though my spirit only agreed to occupy human form on the condition that in life it may seek out its borderless essence in the infinite watery mirrors of the seas.

The present photo-diary is but an abridged version of a recent expedition to an island off the coast of southern England. Famed for its boat building history, its fair pull of poets and writers, and the once location of Queen Victoria’s summer palace, the Isle of Wight is a diamond-shaped island that floats quite happily on Channel waters. The geographical signatures one is struck by immediately upon coming here are the sight of windswept majestic cliffs, some made of coarse stones whereas others are sandy and soft. They rise as far as the eye can see and, if you are observant enough, you might even be lucky enough to spot the fossilised remains of dinosaur bones, the island is an indisputable haven for budding palaeontologists!

The most famous landmark on the Isle of Wight and the first Susie, Agnes and myself were determined to venture towards is called ‘The Needles’. Situated on the western coast, these comprise of three pillars of chalk that defiantly rise out of the sea, not at all far from Alum Bay. There is an adorable Lighthouse on the outer end of the formation and I would have dearly loved to climb it and look out from its top window, pretending to guide the lost out at sea back to the comforting embrace of the shore. For those with an appetite for history, you may be intrigued to know that there is a fourth ‘needle’ called ‘Lot’s Wife’ but it collapsed in a ferocious storm in 1764. Ironically, it is this submerged rock that shares the strongest resemblance to a needle rather than the three that are visible to the eye. Lot, himself, is a biblical figure, cited in both Christianity and Islam, venerated as a prophet and messenger of God.

As I silently stood on the edge of the grassy hill overlooking The Needles I felt as though I had come one step closer to solving the mystery of why my heart was so persistently drawn to the abstruse beauty of the sea. Is there a needle out there, below the hidden blue depths that once belonged to me, whose powers are pen-like and curative? And then it came to me, in slow hushes, in sweet trickles, the memory that indeed such a magical needle was mine and that no matter where I found myself in the world I, the Seamstress of the people, could always entrust Mother Nature to hear my prayers and awaken life into my needle, letting it twirl and stitch and send off gifts to those for whom a smile is a treasure long-awaited…  :))

Diaries Of An Island Girl: Your Seamstress Of The Seas

“… I, the Seamstress of the people, could always entrust Mother Nature to hear my prayers and awaken life into my needle, letting it twirl and stitch and send off gifts to those for whom a smile is a treasure long-awaited… “

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

Rain: Sunshine In Disguise

It is gushing down with kamikaze-style rainfall this morning as though it has never rained before, imbuing the impression that the wet spectacle before us is the cathartic release of the cumulation of centuries of pent-up desire to consummate with the earth. Most of my friends have entered the obligatory conclave of complaints about the rotten brutish antics of the British weather but, however desperately I try to see their line of reasoning, I am hopelessly enamoured by the rain. I think the collective memories of my ancestors, people who soared to high spirits when the monsoon trickled down their skin in harmony with their pulses have left their indelible passions in my own heart so much so that when I look out of my window on a blustery soggy day, he quickly becomes a saucy man wearing a leaden top-hat and an invisible moustache that brushes leafless branches helter-skelter and I am not the slightest disappointed or disheartened. Instead, a secret thrill rushes to my cheek before stealing into my chest, a vault that tends to be guarded very well on most occasions apart from when the talk is of the rain. Impossibilities are torn to shreds, for, as opposed to all those who look out and see an abomination of the sulkiest grey, I am the only one amongst them, jewelled with a smile on my face, who reads a love letter gleaming inside the heart of every raindrop and it is my spirits now that soar as fast as my ancestors had done before me. I would be quite happy for you to leave with the understanding that each time the skies over England bursts its banks, there is a little girl who takes it as her golden ticket on a steam train, skimming over the oceans and heading out to a land of eternal sunshine…

The Sunshine In Disguise

“… each time the skies over England bursts its banks, there is a little girl who takes it as her golden ticket on a steam train, skimming over the oceans and heading out to a land of eternal sunshine… “

 

Photograph & Words: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | Guernsey | 2014    

I Know Of A Bench In The Park

There is a bench in this world that knows your loneliness as if it were its own twin
But alone you are not: in your blood yawns my smile and glistens my tender untouched skin…

 

I Know Of  A Bench In The Park

“I do not believe in empty spaces on a bench, they are always filled to bursting with sweet dreams of me sitting next to you someday and, that day should it happen, I shall shyly ask of you to call me ‘Naima’, she who is finally Content…” – Mazzy

 

Photograph & Poem: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | St Peter’s Port | Guernsey | Channel Islands 2014