I took myself for a walk today. My body aches, lately. Ha! Lately? For the past thirty years kind of lately... but yes, this sludge like treacle we move through while attached to our phones receiving news of a genocide adds a new layer of ache. When the doctors found a murmur on my ten year old heart, they kept an eye on it even as I moved countries. Lately... oh that word again... my heart is heavier, the beats a little unsteadier. "I think I'd like to send you to Papworth if you don't mind," said my cardiologist a few weeks ago. For an MRI at the big fancy heart hospital. "Anything I s ..read more

Our beloved friend, Annette Rowntree-Clifford née Johanna Abrahamsohn, died in December. She was nearly a hundred, so she knew life in all its shades of horror and glory. Some years ago, Annette's granddaughter wrote a beautiful poem about her Granny being a bird, flitting from room to room, 'her wings are deep blue folded cardigans and tucked inside are her stories'. Emily's poem was read at Annette's eulogy yesterday, and so, I believe, was the poem below, which I had written for Annette many years ago when I visited her. After the long drive to Leicester from Cambridge, I had to be put to ..read more

Whose woods these are, I think I know; They belong to my friends, Coco and Joe. What if there were no fear, or loss, but hawthorn berry, instead? What if I could tell hazel and maple apart, not because one had more beauty - there are rosehips, don’t forget, and Vibernum Opulis and crushed, scented pine. Some catkins are soft green  caterpillars, plush with rain. I learn a new story now and again - like how rosemary  got her name - Rose Marinus - ‘dew of the sea’. Everything ages. The cork of the field maple marries moss, and somewhere in the low bramble, wild strawb ..read more

Write. What shall I write of?  Sleep? When shall I sleep? These last few months have seen Dad fall, enter and leave hospital. And then Mum had a cyst burst at the back of her knee. She entered and left hospital. At home, I happily wear the crown of Angel daughter, exhausted but knowing I can escape to a warm bed in between cooking and cleaning and helping with this and that … But write? What shall I write of? And sleep? When my dreams are part of my waking hours of images of children in Gaza, victims of a genocidal video game player. Remote button massacre with changes in ingredients ..read more

When kites fly  across blue skies and border divides, Gaza and Israel unite. We make the kites, we fly the kites,  over the wells of hate. We carve the sails, we choose the colours for the tails; in ribbons of orange and red and green - we speak across the steel. When we fly kites across blue skies, Gaza and Israel unite. © Shaista Tayabali, 2023 In 2011, when I watched the Dispatches documentary on the Children of Gaza, I wrote two poems. The first was for a little girl named Amal, who was nine years old, and suffering terrible migraines from the shrapnel in her head ..read more

The sunflowers my mother bought wept over the kitchen floor  this morning, their scent overpowering -  wet carpets, mothballs.   Or something older, an odour too close to human, for comfort. A flower seems such a harmless thing, stuck in a painted vase, petals shaking off at the lightest touch, or no touch at all. And yet, I am driven far away,  wanting nothing more of their glorious black, the gold I sought - only days ago, when my mother brought them home.  (c) Shaista Tayabali, 2023 Paintings: Vincent Van Gogh (1853-1890) OLN night at DVerse Poets ..read more

In the weeks leading up to my birthday, I try to be intentional about my gratitude. Here I still am, loved.  I tend to myself in the ways that will fill me up for the unknown times ahead. I took the bus into town, crossed Parker's Piece and stepped into a cosy salon for a massage with baobab oil - seed oil from the tree of life (they say). I tried to infuse colour with my nieces' tenth birthday balloons in the conservatory (slightly deflated, but with original illustrations), birthday nails the colour of birthday balloons… flowers everywhere…  Mum made a roast chicken with s ..read more

I thought I hadn’t posted a thing since Christmas, but I have a couple of posts this year to redeem me. It gets  harder and harder to persist as long form creator when the young ‘uns are buzzing about us with TikTok reels, and YouTube shorts and everything is clipped and fleeting. My niece Bella made a first TikTok for me, and it’s fun, lively, catchy. My nephew Raf has an anime channel, and he checks the views and subscribers like a hawk. My nieces Eva and Ellie whip up comic series as an afterthought at breakfast, and the walls of Shaista land continue to be drawn and painted on, some ..read more

Daisies are out for as long as the mowers keep away. The vast arms of the blossom trees cast shadow nets into which we rest, before throwing and catching the ball. I’m usually curled up in bed before we leave and then, with any luck, immediately after… Sammy curls in beside me, when nothing more fun begins to look likely.  In the middle of tulips and crocuses and flowers that look like fried eggs, a tiny snail like a tasty snack makes of the world their oyster. So far, uncrushed, still living. And sometimes, a gate… leading to the unknown, where wild hearts of horses ..read more

My heart takes a lifetime to plunge. Cold waters await.  Is it worth it? Freedom is easy to desire. All around me, the sounds of progress - thunderous, clanging, male.  Alone, half-naked, seeing blurred, I read the verse of the first  free women  and inch my way in,  to freeze and learn,  that for me, it is enough to be here.  © Shaista Tayabali, 2023 Linked to dverse poets Open Link Night It’s hard to believe I’ve been back in Cambridge for almost three months. I think I have accepted my return?! The water was so cold the day I wrote this poem ..read more