Autumn Rain Was Made For Books!

Date: 22-10-15, One month since original post

An Editor’s Note To My ‘Dear Friend’ !

Do You know what the definition of the word ‘enantiodromia’ is?  I strongly suspect that the chances are that You are a novice here, never having heard of it and will certainly not have encountered it even in Your most wildest dreams. Allow me to relieve Your frictioned nerves at this point with the application of the cooling balm of the enlightening answer. Exotic and mysterious to the ears and lips, the word refers to those things that steer in opposite directions, where it becomes so that clockwise is entrancingly paired with the counter-clockwise. I shall further clarify this gift of a new word by citing iconic instances that exemplify it, with necessary succinctness, and these include the Forces of Light and Dark, Good and Bad, Masculine and Feminine, Fortune and Misfortune, Ice and Fire.

And of what significance do my words carry here, Dear Detective?

There is much. You and I propagate two Visions of the world, whose umbilical mission is to depict the great dichotomy of the human condition, its perplexing extremes and astonishing polarities but whose unifying commitment is always the soul-driven quest to ignite the flame of Hope once more into the hearts of our readers so that they may be inspired to become stewards of Good Magic; looking after the world one person at a time, starting with that greatest of barriers – themselves.

While You utilise Your brave and noble moral foundation to primarily present the darker, shadier and tragic stories, it is in the flash of a proton dance the gears of Destiny come to life to propel my pen to take on the role as Your enantiodromia, fulfilling completion by counterbalancing what has been laid down by You with my contribution of tales and poetry from the lighter, brighter and triumphant layer extracted from my own plethora of experiences.

I have one such extremely significant example of enantiodromia and it occurred today. One of the reasons why I am an infrequent visitor to the virtual world is that I prefer, more than words could encapsulate, to dedicate my time to writing letters to my friends rather than tapping away at keys, for the ink seems to be a most faithful conduit for the inner musings of my Soul. As per routine, I wrote one such letter to my mate, Jan, two days ago, accompanied with a printing of an article from the Brainpickings website, edited by Maria Popova, a faceless Russian genius of the pen. There was, however, one special difference to be observed in my postal habit this time insofar that I gave Jan strict instructions to use her Smartypants phone to photo-archive my offerings and post it on FB today.

Why?

A gut instinct, an intuition, a sixth sense, a premonition. Study closely and carefully:

LINK TO LETTER: https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10206246775946661&set=a.1349103125974.2044798.1183222940&type=3&theater

 

  1. I write of a heavenly place, the solace and beauty that I feel when I am in the embrace of my garden. You hint of the same place, though You speak of loss leading to Heaven.
  2. In the letter I am wrapped in warm and comforting attire, You mention of a place on earth that is classically thought of as a freezing tundra.
  3. Maria Popova, a Russian Editor – I do not think it necessary to tease out the connection there!
  4. The written word acts as an amplifier of my thoughts of the beauty of the present moment in my letter, You refer to it as a repository of the Past.
  5. I allude to the wild, roaming child of the forest who is a happy wanderer of the earth, Your child is lost to the ether.
  6. Your characters are sooted in darkness with sparse grains of Light tapping down on them, others stripped of flesh, seared by the blazing shadows of hellish curses; that is why not BRAIN but RAIN PICKINGS appears in the photograph, it is what I send You, like elixir-filled berries, may it soothe, cool and cure any doubts You may have of the sustainability of Your Vision. Never lose sight of it!
  7. ‘X’-cessive flammable activity proves to be an IRRITANT in Your story whereas ‘X’ marks the ‘Treasure’ in Jan’s caption.
  8. Jan has chosen to lay my mail against a backdrop of pretty hand-sewn embroidery, on the contrary Your story pleads for restorative stitches in time and on skin.
  9. You refer to ‘15’ time and time again as a number associated with hardship and tragedy, whereas it is symbolic of Victory and Freedom under the wings of my penmanship.
  10. If a SNAIL were to view its intended destination it may very well utter under its breath: “ Me-Far…”
  11. And that is WHY I wrote the poem below, a month ago, because Autumn Rain Was Made For Books – care to imagine how blessed EDITORS must feel when the heavens release their watery flocks!
  12. Do You CATCH my drift or do I, like the 12 hours of CLOCKWORK, elude Your Logic yet again… :)) 


Whoever You may be, may it be under the healing auspices of rain
Your Mazzy xxx

Wrapped warm in furry teal poncho, motherly amber cave of armchair, though toying with dilemma
Should these eyes walk into Dickens’ ‘Pickwick Papers’ or stray towards Austen’s ‘Emma’?
No doubt one will be chosen, but blessed for these tiny crownless jewels, Tiffany stars on my glass pane
Our desire to read precedes a heavenly emissary: This beautiful, beautiful, beautiful – O so beautiful – autumnal rain… :))

Autumn Rain Was Made For Books

“…No doubt one will be chosen, but blessed for these tiny crownless jewels, Tiffany stars on my glass pane
Our desire to read precedes a heavenly emissary: This beautiful, beautiful, beautiful – O so beautiful – autumnal rain…”

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

Advertisements

Trésors Du Louvre: Quand Le Ciel Et La Terre Baiser (Treasures Of The Louvre: When Heaven And Earth Kissed)

Diary 10: Trésors Du Louvre: Quand Le Ciel Et La Terre Baiser (Treasures Of The Louvre: When Heaven And Earth Kissed)

The winged Cupid – I do get ticklishly warm just reading the word made by the first three letters of his name! – has become besieged with unhindered passion and soft tenderness as he gazes down into the eyes of his one true beloved, Psyche, whom he has awoken from the imprisonment of infinite sleep just moments ago with the kiss of Life. Pysche Revived By Cupid’s Kiss, a Neoclassical masterpiece fashioned out of marble by Antonio Canova, depicts a sacred moment between two Lovers, ravaged by innumerable obstacles but who were destined to unite. The logical conclusion to their tale of Desire was consummated at the last of when Hope was thought lost.

I was tremendously impressed by its lack of a singular primary point of view, You must circle around it to read all the many stories that surround the mythological narrative of Cupid and Psyche, and it is more than likely that in each circumnavigation You will collect a new piece of the bigger picture, forming one of multiple substantiating reasons why this sculptural beauty is accredited with the fame that it enjoys today. I was particularly appealed by the absence of a single perspective that would allow the viewer to see the faces of both Lovers. If Cupid’s tender stare was visible at one view, Psyche’s expression became hidden. If Psyche’s face is assigned priority for observation then Cupid’s disappears completely. While some critics have interpreted this mutually-exclusive play of perspective as afflicting an exhaustive pressure on the viewer, I, for one, completely disagree. Pardon me should I sound flamboyantly idealistic however, my heart was born of the conviction that if the Love is true then the reflection of the Beloved can always be admired in its all authentic glory in the face of the Lover.

On that day in the Louvre, the sun glistened as white Light and it poured in through the window, pious in substance and only equalled to the breath of angels, ushering my feet to step towards and pause at the angle shown in my photograph. I saw the winged Cupid of the skies, his face adorned in purest Light that came from the hidden but shimmering face of Psyche below, fired by her ecstasy growing in intensity as she gradually is made to come to her waking senses. So it echoes that the visible rests in the hidden, and the hidden in the visible.

You let Your eyes fly above my words every single day, gliding over my photographs in wingless manoeuvres, and amateurish though I am, You do not perceive them as such, releasing always a sigh of relief and comfort to know that I have not erased my sincerity towards the welfare of Your heart. I choose to remain hidden so that You may reign and shine as like the first shard of yawn that sings the song of Daybreak… :))

Treasures Of The Louvre: When Heaven And Earth Kiss

“… a sacred moment between two Lovers, ravaged by innumerable obstacles but who were destined to unite. The logical conclusion to their tale of Desire was consummated at the last of when Hope was thought lost…”

Photography & Words: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | Musée Du Louvre | Paris | France 2015

 

In Two Places At The Same Time…

Mr Bear, not so tall, climbed up a square box by my room’s windowsill
And as foreseen on the Scrabble grid, in his chest ROSE-E-DIL
I whispered, “Such a smile you wear my dear sir, to paint away shadows and the night”
He shyly quizzed, “Madam, how can you be here and yet shine as evening’s golden marmalade Light…?!”

In Two Places At The Same Time...

He shyly quizzed, “Madam, how can you be here and yet shine as evening’s golden marmalade Light…?!”

Photograph & Poem: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | My Home | UK 2015

The Shade Of My Locks

On bare ancient rocks, waves lashing from the sea, I closed my eyes and whispered your name
The shade of my locks healed your sores from afar and now your body a candle, anew in frame and flame…

The Shade Of My Locks

“… The shade of my locks healed your sores from afar and now your body a candle, anew in frame and flame… “

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

Tagore’s Brighton: A Day Out With My Baby Sister

Once in colonial past and Union Jack above India soared
Ambitions ground by father, Tagore on steamer moored
To a coastal town in England, named as if the sun lived in this place
Moist paddy fields no more, instead ivory seagulls filled this space
On shoals of pebbles he sat and knew a barrister he was not
Rather to let pen dance on paper, poetry to blot
Indian palace, The Royal Pavilion, the prince’s summer residence glowed
Burst his heart, memories of home, tears of salty rivers flowed
But look what did become of him, a poet to reach summit of the stars
And so my baby sister and I decided this pilgrimage would be ours
She the flashy illustrator, I the teller of exotic stories
Stood in the places he stood, sipping hazaar cups of teas…

Tagore’s Brighton: A Day Out With My Baby Sister

“… Indian palace, The Royal Pavilion, the prince’s summer residence glowed
Burst his heart, memories of home, tears of salty rivers flowed
But look what did become of him, a poet to reach summit of the stars
And so my baby sister and I decided this pilgrimage would be ours…”

Photography & Poem: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | Brighton Pier & Brighton Pavillion | Brighton | East Sussex | UK 2015

A Love Story In 1-2-3 Frames

A pleasurable act of self-indulgence to many, I normally loathe having my photograph taken because I find it awfully unstimulating and that is why I hardly ever fiddle with my profile picture in Facebook and why it is likely that in party albums my face is pretty much non-existent, even though I might have been the one to generate the most noise!! My passion and calling is steadfastly rooted in the telling of stories to enchant and entertain and my place, therefore, I take with a dimpled-smile behind the lens and the pen. However, if there is an urge to tell a story about me then it is on such rare occasions I deem it appropriate to turn the camera on myself. I did do such a thing two years ago, on the day after my birthday. I wanted to convey what felt to me to be the most ancient story of my life, indeed the recurrent theme of my Destiny. I made this photograph my cover photo in Facebook and not barely moments passed that I began to be the recipient of amusing friend requests, attracting the attention of many a male stranger who would start their preliminary email along the lines of, “Hi, you’re hot…” or “What a pretty lady…” or “I am lying on my bed as I look at you…” or, well, you ought to catch my drift! How insufferably boring to hear such monotonic flattery and how I sincerely pitied them all. As a synesthetic, I was able to peer through their words and into their souls where I was overwhelmed with sadness for I stood in front of vast black holes, silently but violently swirling in their inner universe, ripping every ounce of integrity into orphaned shreds. Men, whose hunger for meaning had been tragically contorted into lustful pursuits.

However, I foresaw with my third eye that something far more superior and magical would come out of my public placement of this story of pictures. It would be a beacon that would call my soul mate back to me for only he would be the one to READ the story from left to right and thus recognise, as like when morning mists disperse to reveal entire world of verdant forests, who I truly was.

In succinct chronological order composed of 1-2-3 frames I devised my ancient story purely out of three prints splashed out in rich sumptuous colour in which a rose sewn of magnificent petals unites with the black ocean of my hair – a boatman moored to his Home. In this life I patiently and faithfully wait for him to return once again so as to distil peace to the anarchy of the raging waves of my dark sea hair. Why do I feel now, more than ever, that he is close by…?

A Love Story In 1-2-3 Frames

“… three prints splashed out in rich sumptuous colour in which a rose sewn of magnificent petals unites with the black ocean of my hair – a boatman moored to his Home. In this life I patiently and faithfully wait for him to return once again so as to distil peace to the anarchy of the raging waves of my dark sea hair…”

 

Photograph & Words: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | UK 2012/2014

 

The Most Unlikeliest Love Story

On another one of my jolly old escapades into the antique markets I noticed a most unlikely pair propped behind a glass cabinet and immediately the mechanical cog wheels of my imagination set to work and words began to come through the gauze of my pen’s nib and onto my notebook with the fierce outpouring of a tap that has been released of its stiff neck. I do think that in this instance my own Destiny will favour such an alliance as the one presented in this strange but comforting photograph. The grandest, boldest and most unbreakable of bonds can sometimes be found in the places where no one dared to look…

 

“He was a fool born to click his fingers so that the world may laugh even in its darkest blackish winters. Their worries flung out into the wind for however a short a while brought stashes of riches into his soul, an invisible happening that could only be seen in the growing brightness of his red-red nose. Alas, my clownish fool, my travelling accordionist of pavements and cold starry skies, gave so much away but little did he receive. I watched him from above and one day, as he became too weary with unlove, I abandoned the Kingdom of Angels to walk the earth with him. The day is yet to arrive when he lays his eyes on me for the first time and I say, behold, his accordion shall know silence as he weeps tears of gratitude when he learns of his true identity. A surge in my chest shall follow and rise in the form of a sacred rose, whose blood will have been nourished by the dawn light and dusk sonnets of his red-red nose… ” – Mazzy        

 

The Most Unlikeliest Love Story

“The grandest, boldest and most unbreakable of bonds can sometimes be found in the places where no one dared to look…”

 

 

 

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

There Is A Place…

On a cold autumn evening about two weeks ago I took my usual stroll through the Cathedral grounds of my city, the air clean and crispy and enticing twilight hues descending upon me like some giant embellished divan from the world of Arabian Nights. This is the very Cathedral in which one of the most influential authors of my life is buried. Her name is Jane Austen. The chances are you have heard of her talents even though perhaps you may have never picked up any of her novels. As much as she was a most fascinating writer of social observation and wit, her pen was just as dazzlingly astute in capturing the nuances and complexities of the human heart. I should think that thoughts of her on this particular evening and of the years spent studying her in school would be the most likeliest explanation for the words that spilled forth from my own heart as I stepped under the ever sheltering Light of the Victorian lamppost. Like she did in life, I, too, pray that someday I shall be able to share my pen and notebook with someone that knows my heart better than I do. Likewise, I am compelled to express that the Cathedral grounds has always felt incomplete to me because I know it is a place that was meant to be shared with another presence. Yes, dear friends, it has been a long wait but a wait that is worthwhile, honest and pure. It has no other sustenance other than the small flickering tongue of a flame as luminous as the one housed inside the old lamppost. It is my Faith and what more is Faith than the unmovable belief in something unseen, unheard, unmet…

 

“There is a place in this world that refuses to be recognised as a place until You and I are seen together under this Light…” – Mazzy

 

There Is A Place...

“There is a place in this world that refuses to be recognised as a place until You and I are seen together under this Light… “

 

Photograph & Words: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | UK 2O14

 

Soulmates: You Live In The Care That I Show

It is said by the wise that some souls, by divine decree, were breathed into existence as inseparable pairs, connected across the ages and carrying within them a blazing and incorruptible will to find each other. The calling to seek Completeness is felt in snatches, flashes and echoes from the moment of birth, throughout life and, if unrequited, at the time of death too. So immersed the individual may become in the convolutions of their current life that the image or scent of the Beloved, who is always omnipresent in the fabric of their aura and heartbeat, becomes as rare a sensation as the sudden burst of jasmine blossoms quivering on the wings of a fleeting summer breeze. I am, however, not such an individual. I have forever felt the presence of absence of my Beloved to whom I was joined to the moment all things became and I will continue to do so long after the last stars have died away into the mouthless black sea of the universe. My words may resound with incredulity to your ears, dear reader, since we are all participants in a modern world but, I, perhaps more than you, often stand in disbelief at my own reflection on these matters. I am a woman trained in the methods and principles of Science yet I share a counterpart of my life in the unobservable embrace of Faith. My Faith is a deep and holy river.

 

You Live In The Care That I Show

“The world is a garden and I am a gardener, watering the flowers that come to me with the nourishing hands of a Mother…”

 

For the meanwhile, a vigil I must keep for the one that I Love, turning his absence into a life-affirming passion that I pour into my artistry and in my desire to help others. I do not know if I shall be reunited with my Beloved in this life but blessed I am for what I have and there is still so much that I must do. The world is a garden and I am a gardener, watering the flowers that come to me with the nourishing hands of a Mother coupled with a smile that could only have dawned because somewhere in another part of the sky my Beloved has made it his crescent moon…

 

Photograph & Words: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | 19th Century Japanese Fold-Out Fan | Pitt River’s Museum | Oxford University | Oxford 2014