Gathered Leaves

Cinda and Plookie

2008-12-13T16:50:00.001-08:00

Ik ben zo koud, en jij zo klein

2008-12-13T16:23:00.000-08:00

Ik ben zo koud, en jij zo klein,
mijn kindje, dat nog steeds niet is geboren,
maar toch kan ik je voelen, zien en horen,
ik weet dat je er bent - of eens zult zijn.

Ik voel je in de ruimte, in m'n wezen,
ik zie je spelen, hoor je blijde lach,
die mijn vleugelloze halfheid zal genezen,
eens, op een mooie lichte dag.

Cinda Okkersen 20 augustus 1976

I am so cold, and you so small, my little child, who has not yet been born, but I can still feel, see and hear you, I know that you are there - or will be soon. I feel you in the space inside my womb, I see you playing, hear your happy laugh, which will cure my wingless incompleteness, soon, on a beautiful bright day.

De tere zoete bloesem

2008-12-13T15:58:00.000-08:00

De tere zoete bloesem,
die schuchter uitbot
in de winter,
is gedoemd te verschrompelen
onder koude witte handen.

Geduld, geduld,
de lente komt eenmaal;
zolang de nachten lang zijn,
houd je je schuil.

Cinda Okkersen 15 augustus 1976

The tender, sweet flower which bashfully buds in the winter is doomed to shrivel up under cold white hands. Patience, patience, the spring will come eventually. While the nights are long, keep yourself hidden away.

Een ster rijst aan het firmament

2008-12-13T15:50:00.000-08:00

Een ster rijst aan het firmament,
haar vreemd licht ongekend,
zo koel en ver.
Iemand moet eenzaam zijn;
mijn ziel voelt de pijn
van die koude verre ster.

Cinda Okkersen 24 april 1969

A star is rising in the heavens, her strange light is unknown, so cold and faraway. Somebody must be lonely; my soul feels the pain of that cold, faraway star.

Ik zie voorwaarts naar een nieuwe wereld

2008-12-13T15:23:00.000-08:00

Ik zie voorwaarts naar een nieuwe wereld,
een wereld van engelen, en ik ben niet bang;
de oude wereld is stukgeslagen,
een ruine.
Gelaten kijk ik toe,
mijn hoofd suist
door pijn gekweld,
al het oude lijkt een droom.
Ik glimlach,
maar niets in mij deelt die lach,
niets,
ik voel niets,
niets.
Ik weet alleen dat, als ik gaan moet,
ik zal gaan
en huilen;
o God, neem me dan in uw armen,
als ik kom,

en streel mijn haar.

Cinda Okkersen 20 oktober 1968

I look forward to a new world, a world of angels, and I am not afraid. The old world is broken, a ruin. I look at it with resignation, my head moves, vexed with pain. All the old things seem like a dream. I smile, but nothing in me shares that laugh . . nothing . . . I feel nothing . . . nothing. I only know that, if I must go, I will go, and weeping. O God, take me in your arms if I come . . . and stroke my hair.

Het is een trieste zekerheid

2008-12-13T15:14:00.000-08:00

Het is een trieste zekerheid
dat alle mensen eens moeten scheiden,
hoe lief zij elkaar ook zijn, dit lot
is hard, onwrikbaar en niet te vermijden,
daar 't van de innigste band ons bevrijdt
om te gaan naar andere mensen van God.

Cinda Okkersen 16 april 1965

It is a sad certainty that everyone must part eventually, however dear they are to one another, and this fate is hard, immovable and not to be avoided, for it frees us from the tenderest tie to go towards other people of God.

A tree by the sea, painted in wax, by Pamela Nicholls

2008-09-21T15:16:00.000-07:00

Tehran - First Impressions

2008-09-21T14:43:00.001-07:00

A recent travel guide to Tehran introduces the city as an "unexotic crossroads, aesthetically a mess, but deserving a day or two." Had it not been my final destination, perhaps I would have only stayed a day, as my first impressions were pretty dismal. I wrote in my journal as the bus swept past Karaj, a town on the outskirts which etches Tehran's suburbs.

Morning: 6.00 am. I see a haze of pink smoke rising above the flat valley which seems unable to escape. The mountains beyond suppress any escape. The landscape here is dry, brittle and colourless – trees glued together with exhaust fumes somehow managing to keep on living. It looks like a photo in sepia. Disappointment starts to rise in me as industrial pylons and pipes pump out their fumes, the wind pulling them over the city like a grey blanket.

It is now one month since I came to Tehran. It has been a long month, an exhausting and intense month; too short to deeply comment upon this city, which is manifold, varied, difficult, sullen and strange. Yet my following comments are based on the poetic side of this city, glimpsed through partially cracked spaces, which may be discounted as "unrealistic, illusory and unreliable." I use the word "poetic", for it is what I search in travelling, and there have been times when Tehran has captured my soul and has become a living poem; a subtle labyrinth.

The other day by Tehran University I stopped by a half-open door which led to a small courtyard. From somewhere; a hidden back balcony, a child sung, and down here, next to a fountain surrounded by crumbling stone and mosaic, touched by long grown and overhanging plants entwining themselves around the edifice, an old man sat reading. It was a portrait of inner content; a close personal moment snatched – so removed from the outside world of sudden noises and pollution and car-on-car – a gracious passage between two states – home and world.

Beauty is not obvious here. Tehran hides her beauty well. You must search, be curious; it is more in movements and in moments caught, than in a monument or grand building. Unlike other Central Asian capitals with their often opulent architecture one could well ask "So. What has Tehran to offer?"

Sublimation, a gentler emotive, the people becoming the place .

There is an old shoemaker who has his pitch by a disused home. For the past two weeks he has been working on a pair of shoes. My husband says he is older than the neighbourhood itself. The shoes are now nearly finished – his work of art, a dream pair of shoes, not any pair of shoes; upon these he has put many dreams. Sometimes I watch him from afar as he holds them to his body, almost a part of himself. Now just a buckle left to sew on. "Who are they for?" These shoes which shine so well in the half-light of winter's sun. "Even if they are for no-one, it does not matter, it is my employment", he says the day they are finished and placed on his workbag.

Art for art's sake is reflected all over Tehran. Artisans bring their work to Park-e-Lale to sell. Top heavy tables hold housewives patterned embroidery which skittle like mathematical equations over the cloth. Young students carve little wooden horses with piercing blue eyes from wood scraps, lace makers, basket weavers, sweet makers an entire cottage industry blooms.

Then the shops: from cake shop to clothes shop all bathed in neon lit clusters, which at night give the impression of a modern art installation – deep blue, light blue, red, pink, green and so on, flamboyantly flicker against the wares which are being sold.

How can a cake be laid out in one thousand different ways? And each imitated Gucci suit better than the one imitated and smelling just feebly of distant rose oil? And as the street grows tired of merchandise, flowers take over.

Flowers everywhere; packed, picked, hung, thrown on the sidewalk, discarded, sent, perched beside the newsreader as she reads the evening news on the television, given to the teacher, flanked in the university halls, and this is before you even get into the flower shops, the finest pleasure. Stand awhile in white marbled emporiums where a thousand scents touch the senses and petals drop small tears, and you linger as city dust is removed by the cool, long stemmed flowers. Where do all these midnight flowers come from?

These are the finer things of Tehran life and the need Iranians have for beauty and for quotidian art. And as my idling through the city streets prolongs, my eyes begin to enjoy the unevenness of Tehran's design and it becomes attractive. Once away from the main drag, back streets open themselves up to an intimate world. Buildings with crumbling facades and marble steps bleached white again and again and again carry iron-wrought balconies laden with pots and pans and other household goods. I am not in a city anymore but in a community, which brings me to a wonderful piece of writing I read in a Michelin Guide to Central Asia. I chanced upon this book in a second hand shop in North Kargar. The guide was written in the late sixties, but should be read for the section on Tehran and rooftop living. (Iranians tend to live on their roof-tops in the summer months when it is too hot.) A whole other life is created where the writer describes it as a "culture within a culture", summing it up with: "The richest treat of all, the smells of perfumed rice cooked over a slow heat as the sun comes down, and by dusk the aromas mingle into the somnolent air . . . "

Streets and smells, full of the smell of rice, smell from the bread shops, noon, barbari, taftoon, sangek. Smells of rose water, smells of rose jam the Turkish/Iranian women cook. Tehran and smells and food . . .

On the birthday of the twelfth Imam – my first experience of a Holy Day in Iran – I stood opposite the Amir Mosque, on Kargar, waiting for dark to fall, waiting for the street neon to come on, waiting . . . At the Mosque they were cooking food for 3000 people, and as the rain started to fall slowly the neon flickered rainbow colours as people walked by, hands piled high with silver platters laden with Ghormeh Sabzi . They darted between the cars like acrobats, careful not to slip in the rain, afraid to drop their Holy and blessed food.

My month has been about walking and talking and people watching. Finding quiet spots in which to reflect. Speaking to women in parks, getting Persian recipes, learning a few more words of Farsi, being invited for food, being given flowers "just to welcome you to Iran." Wandering the boulevards, book browsing by the University, listening to the students discuss their art, their literature.

Recently there has been a surprisingly bold exhibition of graphic art in the Contemporary Art Museum. I went with a young student who had some of her work exhibited. "No matter what, I am responsible for my country, for her suffering, her heartbreak, her joy and her pains. So as an artist I am on the edge, where there are times I want to get up and just go, but I know I would come back . . . There is too much for me not to want to come back."

Another day, in a park, some gypsy girls with berry-burnt skin and long patch worked dresses played a daring game on the swings. They shouted to me as they swung "Where are you from?" I told them France. "You mean over there?" One girl pointed her way out over the mountains. "Yes", I replied. They sang in unison, "So are we, from that mountain there, we have a small house right at the top." I have since found out where they live, on a median strip in Ave. Kurdistan. Each morning I walk there to buy bread for my family. An old woman leaves them a basket of fruit by the opening of their ramshackle cloth hut.

When everything becomes too full of intensity I go and sit as close as I can to the Alborz mountains which are a source of clarity and inspiration to every Tehrani. On a clear day they seem an arm-stretch away, like you could just lean out and over and scoop the snow from the top.

Two days ago as the whole of Tehran was getting ready for the anniversary of the coming of the Ayatollah Khomeini back into Iran and a vague feverish excitement filled the air as street lights switched on beaming multi-colours and young nimble-bodied boys wound flowers round every post and pole in sight, I felt, suddenly, for the first time terribly alone and misplaced . . . I asked my husband to drive me to Shemran on the Alborz, a small hamlet of tea stalls where lovers and families go to get away from the harshness of the city life. He left me by a small cascade. Behind me one or two homes puffed blue-grey smoke, and I thought of the colour blue. Had I not read that it was the colour of Iran? I am sure I had.

Blue, this water, this peace by the clouds, the purple-blue haze rising and climbing the mountains. Earthy, solid, forever. I looked up and faraway, and there, high into the recesses of the mountain a young boy led a pack of donkeys over to the other side. I suddenly felt, at that moment, it was the most beautiful place on earth.

By Jeanne Pope.

First published in Paivand newspaper, Montreal, May 15, 2000

A fairy, painted in pastels, by Selina Robinson

2008-09-08T10:18:00.000-07:00

Message from a Loved One

2008-08-27T17:45:00.000-07:00

Our worlds are very close, you know,
We're not so far apart,
You only have to speak my name
And I'm there within your heart.
Much closer than I used to be,
For I know your every thought,
And the things you used to say to me,
And the things that you once taught,
Are being witnessed now in truth
And love, for all to see.
For the spirit world is very real,
A true reality.
Not just a dream, or trusting faith,
But a life that is for living.
Born of the soul I really am,
And have been from the beginning.
You cannot in your own sweet world
Begin to understand.
This life within the spirit realm
Is a very different land
From the world that I once knew so well.
The world we used to share
Fades to all insignificance,
Which no-one could compare.
Until that time when your turn comes,
I can only pause and say:
For a true life of the spirit
Sow the seeds on earth - TODAY.

Pamela Nicholls

Together

2008-08-27T17:39:00.000-07:00

I am here and you are there,
Do not worry or despair.
Nothing's changed and nothing's new,
For I am I and you are you,
We are us and still the same.
Remember, when you say my name,
That though we seem so far apart
You are still within my heart.
Side by side we will always be,
Together through eternity.

Pamela Nicholls

Closeness of Spirit

2008-08-27T17:25:00.000-07:00

Spirits came close to me this Christmas
And I sensed them all around.
Their presence filled the very air
With a love that's so profound
It touched my heart, until I felt
My soul unite with theirs,
And I was lifted to the height,
Above my worldly cares.
I joined with them in prayer and praise,
And thanking God above
For the gift of life, both here on earth
And true life up above.
We thanked him for the times gone by
When in a different way
We shared together all our love,
On that very special day.
But true love makes a special link
Which stays with us forever,
So remember when you're feeling low
That you are still together.
No-one can ever separate the love of soul for soul.
Remember in your quiet time,
Make this your special goal,
To send your love to all around,
Both here and up above,
Then you'll receive a special gift
Of God's eternal love.

Pamela Nicholls

Sister Marie

2008-08-27T15:49:00.000-07:00

We will join with you, my loving child,
In sweet repose to help induce sleep.
Softly let your eyelids close,
Join with me in sweet repose.
Hold my hand and feel me near
So I may wipe away your fear.
Let's glide unto the plane above
Where all is pure and untold love.
Surround your soul with simple grace
That takes you to that heavenly place
Above the earth's tempestuous sea.
All unite in harmony
Until at last you are restored
With healing from our heavenly Lord.
When you waken once again
You will no longer feel the pain
From worldly cares, and feel instead
Angels of love surround your bed.
Amen.

Pamela Nicholls

My Guardian Angel

2008-08-27T15:31:00.000-07:00

I have a guardian angel
Who's there to look after me,
He comes whenever I call him,
Wherever I happen to be.
I call him my angel Gabriel
For he comes with such love from above
That he fills me with radiant sunshine
And the peace of the pure white dove.
He tells me he's always around me,
Even when I'm not aware,
For sometimes my thoughts are of lesser degree
And I miss all the love that we share.
It is then that I have to remember
That he is my helper and guide,
And no matter how often I stray from the path
In his love I can always abide.

Pamela Nicholls

Stars from Heaven

2008-08-27T15:17:00.000-07:00

Stars come down from Heaven,
If you wish them to,
Just sit and concentrate on them,
That's all you have to do.
You will find they'll open up
Their brilliance clear and bright,
Illuminating all you see,
Your darkness turned to light.
Never forget, when all seems grey
And gloom is everywhere,
That stars come down from Heaven,
If you wish them to be there.
So send out love to everyone
As you go on your way,
Then the stars that come from Heaven
Will be yours and here to stay.

Pamela Nicholls

A Lonely Beach

2008-08-27T15:07:00.000-07:00

Grey skies all around,
No laughter, no sun to be found.
All is silent, all is still,
Only a seagull lets out a squeal.
Dusk is approaching,
All have gone home.
On jetties and beach
No more do they roam.
All is deserted, forgotten and gone.
Only the memory still lingers on.

Pamela Nicholls

An English Garden

2008-08-27T14:58:00.000-07:00

What a beautiful place a garden is,
How peaceful and serene
To walk among the trees and shrubs,
All different shades of green.
To feel the warmth of the summer sun
From a heavenly sky of blue,
To pause awhile and pick a rose
Still fresh with the morning's dew.
Sweet-scented honeysuckle, the buzzing of the bee,
The petals of a daisy - all shaped so perfectly.

I never cease to wonder
At nature's fine display
That is shown to me in the harmony
Of a garden bright and gay.

Pamela Nicholls

Get Well Soon

2008-08-27T14:44:00.000-07:00

This get well message comes to say
"I wish you well in every way."
It comes with fondest wishes too,
In future happiness for you.
I realise it's hard to lay
And stay in bed day after day.
But I am sure that with your grit
You'll see the lighter side of it,
And soon I'll see you once again
Restored to health and free from pain.
My thoughts are with you all the time,
So please accept this little rhyme
That's sent to cheer while in a jam.
Good luck and greetings.
Your friend,
Pam

Pamela Nicholls

The Dentist

2008-08-27T14:26:00.000-07:00

What a terrible place the dentist's chair,
Your body well back, your feet in the air,
You're clutching the arm rest and shaking your knees,
Then a voice right behind you says
"Wide open, please."
You open your mouth, a little at first,
You close your eyes and prepare for the worst.
Then all of a sudden the whine of a drill
Sounds in your ear, then you really feel ill.
The dentist, who's really a very nice guy,
Chats away merrily, but there's no reply.
Hoping he won't think me terribly rude,
I mumble and grunt, but it's really no good.
I decide to relax and take it with ease,
Then he, with a smile, says
"Will you rinse, please."

Pamela Nicholls

The Party

2008-08-27T14:17:00.000-07:00

I'm going to a party,
They tell me it's a treat,
There's going to be some funny games
And lots of things to eat.
They have dressed me up all frilly
And combed out all my hair,
And made me stand still while they got
Ribbons for me to wear.
"Be on your best behaviour"
Is all they seem to say.
I almost wish, between you and me,
It was on some other day.
My manners I must not forget,
Behave myself at tea,
And just before I come away
"Thank you for having me."
It all seems very silly,
Rather a lot of fuss.
When I'm grown up, I'll make sure
It's them who come to us.

Pamela Nicholls

Teddy

2008-08-27T14:02:00.000-07:00

Such a cuddly teddy have I,
He has only one ear and one eye,
And there's stuffing, you see,
Where the nose ought to be,
So it's rather a job to wipe dry.

I have such a cuddly teddy,
He used to have silky soft hair,
But he's just had a trim with Mum's clippers,
And now he looks frightfully bare.

I have such a cuddly teddy,
And although I won't shout it sky high,
Sometimes they say I'm quite naughty,
And give me a smack and I cry.

But he's such a cuddly teddy,
He is such a beautiful bear,
That I run straight to my bedroom
To find him waiting there.

I bury my head in his tummy
And give out a terrible noise,
Then he cuddles me back
And that moment I know
I prefer him to all of my toys.

Pamela Nicholls

There is a poem at my heart's tongue

2008-06-25T11:58:00.000-07:00

There is a poem at my heart's tongue.
What can I say when words won't do;
a painting maybe? But I cannot paint.

I still can see the green slopes of the park,
the smooth green slopes, bathed by the summer sun;
it was a paradise for love like ours,
a love like Adam and Eve never knew.
The dogs, the children and the one big tree,
you and the child - our child maybe?

The smooth, green hills - and then again the heath,
its purple roughness, scattered with clumsy trees,
like thorn trees in a desert; and the sun
shone on the shy beginnings of our passion,
which corresponded to the scenery.

The heath, so many associations,
so many loves, so many passions,
and so much bright tenderness.

Cinda Okkersen 17th September 1971

Deep night, dark sky, reveal your secrets!

2008-06-19T05:24:00.000-07:00

Deep night, dark sky, reveal your secrets!
Disclose the clouds that veil your face.
I feel forlorn under your greatness
and scared, too, of your black embrace.

Will it fall round me like black velvet
or choke me with the grasp of death?
Will it be soft and overwhelming
or drag me down into its depth?

Yet, though you frighten me, I'm longing,
because I know you hold the key
to all the dreams that I've been wanting,
and through your eyes at last I'll see.

Cinda Okkersen 13th November 1973

The night won't fall upon us

2008-06-19T05:17:00.000-07:00

The night won't fall upon us,
we'll fall upon the night,
the falling stars fall on us
and gather all their light
and spread it through the cover black
that keeps the poor world choked,
until they finally will see
the bright light of our unity,
our love's sweet joy unlocked.

Cinda Okkersen 17th February 1969

I am so full; my heart is filled with You

2008-06-18T06:58:00.000-07:00

I am so full; my heart is filled with You,
you are so close, and closer all the time,
and growing in me beautiful and true,
a being better than myself and still it's mine.

My soul expands over a vaster land,
I see the quivering leaves on every tree
and hear them sing and see your reaching hand
over the flood that separates you and me.

Cinda Okkersen 21st November 1968