once upon an August love..

My… he was.. ’twas… like a zephyr on a wilting summer’s day..

… like the benign luminescence of a refulgent star that gently beckons as eventide dons her cloak of darkness..

..like an oasis enticing in a land arid and grown restive to be sated..

..like the primordial lilt of the surf coddling the wearily sentient..

..like the hushed fancies of nostalgia’s bittersweet yearning pandered to..

..like a cup that did runneth over with unscathed amorousness..

..like the heady aroma of a tropical blossom on a sweltering day..

…’twas an especial love that dared ventured to scale the precarious heights of Nirvana..

…’twas, alas foreordained doom.

 

Copyright © 2017 by Suman Alana Birju. All rights reserved. No part of this may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission. For information please email: alana_1982@rocketmail.com Donations are welcome.

 

 

 

 

nosce te ipsum

Ahh.. the LOA… The catalyst for marked change is where one hones the intricate yearnings that the heart can dare fathom whilst simultaneously mastering its complement & diametric opposite..letting go…& letting God, Universe.. Higher Power intercede, cut through the red tape, if you will.

It requires gargantuan faith to trust implicitly that in the unseen all is conspiring to bring to fruition one’s heart’s innermost desires.. It is the seeming  muddah of all paradoxes & to the already addled mind it begets frustration as one endeavors to figure out the how tos.. it is a seemingly disconcerting task and without unyielding self-discipline mediocrity will persist in our lives as we will inevitably endure in creating by default.

But that’s just it.. it’s not incumbent upon us to figure out said how tos as we (must believe) will be innately coerced into making decisions that will ultimately lead us to shangri-la.. what is required of us however, is a keen comprehension of what it is we hanker after and refining the art of detachment to achieve said desired outcomes.

That’s the tricky part.

Figuring out how to detach from that which  we are dearly partial to and ergo allowing it into our lives.

To truly be detached from the specifics of one’s desires is to manifest benign change that will render constant and the key to achieving this end is to be mindful of exerting control over our mind.

It is ultimately having a mind full of all that is pleasing to us, a mind imbued with the very essence of us and our partialities and not a mind filled with a mosaic of the influence of others’ thoughts, words and deeds. It simply cannot be over-reiterated, the intrinsic worth that is learning to exercise control of our mental faculty.

As human beings, we must remember that we are fallible and for those of us who have endured mental and physical trauma in our lives particularly during our formative years  we must proceed with the utmost of chary as being relieved of being tied to the apron-strings of sorts comes not all at once but more oft than not in dribs and drabs. One must exercise loving kindness towards oneself as one fluctuates between ambling and sprinting from one end of the emotional continuum to the other..from the feigned indifference to the apoplexy, from wistfulness to bitterness.

Quite simply, if a thought does not produce a good feeling, much like a withered leaf, it needs to be nipped off by altering focus on a better feeling thought.

A special note for the brokenhearted who subscribe to the LOA’s philosophy..

Past experience has taught me that being jilted emotionally maims the preponderance of us and if we do not truly endeavor to nurture ourselves with loving kindness, if and when one’s restive heart once again yearns to love and be loved, there is the inevitable revealing of all the faux work behind the meretricious facade.

The foundation of love anew will alas be built upon shifting sands as the once jilted, twice as shy find themselves groping in the dark as they hold onto a mere parody of their former selves and who they ultimately thought they had meticulously and sedulously evolved into. Sadly, our fumbling will also reveal the true character of our significant other. A wise person once said be careful what you wish for. I concur.

Those of us who have endured mental and physical trauma in our lives particularly during our formative years and are still receptive to love are more than likely quick to remedy anomalous behavior. So be patient, be receptive to your inherent wisdom for it is sage and let go of things and people that add to the ebb in your life. Do what & (who lol) makes you happy, tread lightly and  only then will you be truly receptive to the Universe’s abundance.

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Copyright © 2017 by Suman Alana Birju. All rights reserved. No part of this may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission. For information please email: alana_1982@rocketmail.com Donations are welcome.

 

..silence speaketh

To our great consternation, sometimes we encounter individuals who conscientiously opt to maintain a pose of cold indifference despite our efforts.

’tis particularly difficult if we once shared what seemed like an indissoluble bond of love.

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The professed mutual love for each other was only ever valid in transience.

That’s just it.. an erstwhile love was only ever seemingly anything; a mere chimera of an erring imagination.

It is a most sordid truth and the sooner we can jostle our way through the fug of morbid thoughts that assail us without intermission and truly move beyond a meretricious level of acceptance, our angst will begin to be assuaged.

As certain as the sun rises, one day we will awaken from this grueling slumber only to recoil in disgust at our sniveling and the utter piffle that was our groveling to regain some sublime moment of happiness that only ever existed in our mind’s eye.

On that day, our thinking will render markedly trenchant.

On that day, they are welcome to endure in their pertinacious silence.

Copyright © 2017 by Suman Alana Birju. All rights reserved. No part of this may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission. For information please email: alana_1982@rocketmail.com Donations are welcome.

 

Anasuya

The scalding, rogue tears welling in her eyes do nothing to assuage the manifold muddling emotions threatening to overwhelm Anasuya*. Thoroughly sodden with despair, the catharsis that is weeping is not hers for the taking just yet.

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She is irked, irate at her having cast mere cursory glances at the bunting of red flags that mushroomed ornately the last couple of weeks, months.

She is mentally maimed by her feigned but nonetheless fortitudinous display of complacency in the face of an unrelenting sense of dread & premonition that had insidiously began garnering momentum & gnawing at her very psyche.

It is the curse of the unenviably sentient, to know.. but to heed she did not and instead opted to persevere in faux ignorance for the sake of love and on the off chance she was sadly mistaken. Yet even such keen awareness & sage wisdom borne out of prior experience could not adequately proffer respite at the utter devastation that was her having been unceremoniously dumped by a man she quite simply had faith in.

Perhaps the demise of that relationship was inevitable for a die was cast the precise moment when she knowingly allowed herself to wax painfully vulnerable by glibness’ cunning. Alas, it was her contention that his being a savant, with a moiety of it having been borne out of ripening age would have been a good indicator of the true character of the man.

Or is it that a restive heart yearning to love and be loved saw what it wanted to see..heard what it wanted to hear?

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Admittedly, she knows that the prospect of love anew reopens old wounds..she knows that she could have exercised rectitude and ergo avoided touching him on the raw but good sense swiftly interjects her ruminating to gently remind her that true love is when another takes the time to examine without prejudice, habitually clean & dress that wound, it forgives, it proves not fickle but fecund in intensity when things go awry. It ultimately understands and proffers respite. It makes victors of us, not victims.

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Copyright © 2017 by Suman Alana Birju. All rights reserved. No part of this may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission. For information please email: alana_1982@rocketmail.com Donations are welcome.

 

Tobago

I’ve oft been chaffed for my immoderate love of Tobago. Perhaps ’tis just an absurdly insular partiality of mine but I contend that even the hardiest of us can render bewitched by its simplistic charm. A mere cursory aerial glance of the isle on the endearingly short flight over quickly conjures images of idyllic island-life by its vastly being underdeveloped; innumerable visits will alloy not the magic that pervades upon disembarking, one is unerringly warmly greeted by the irresistible and almost impalpable beckoning of island-time and suddenly life’s little vicissitudes seem considerably trivial. As a child, many vacations were spent wiling away the days at the beatific Store Bay beach, nights were spent at the lovely Crown Point Beach Hotel with chin resting on cupped hands listening intently to my father’s resonant voice regale me with colorful stories from his past whilst simultaneously being lulled to the most blissful of slumber by the soporific sounds of a gentle surf. Many years later, a sojourn would prove markedly reminiscent of past indulgences and suffice it to say pleasantly novel in others.

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Store Bay beach

My love for the bucolic gem will endure.

Copyright © 2016 by Suman Alana Birju. All rights reserved. No part of this may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission. For information please email: alana_1982@rocketmail.com Donations are welcome.

 

 

separation’s angst

the sojourn has left me besotted by love..with the greatest of yearning…
for the promise of us & all the wonder it entails
..woe betide me if my love doth goes unrequited..
’tis troth
…for the abyss reneged, bestowed chance..
& to return to it’s pernicious embrace, ’twill endure for all eternity.

 

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Copyright © 2016 by Suman Alana Birju. All rights reserved. No part of this may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission. For information please email: alana_1982@rocketmail.com Donations are welcome.

 

“Rain Rain DON’T Go Away”

The mere thought of a leaden sky dampens most folks’ enthusiasm to start their day; rainy days never encroach on my contentment.. It propitiates my spirit with its dismal allure and is always a welcome respite from the intense heat that pervades the Caribbean’s archipelago. Clad only in a button down shirt, it proved a confounded challenge earlier today, to resist yielding to the temptation of a barefoot stroll along the meandering parterres, abruptly halting to pluck a hibiscus and tuck it into my hair– so pretty, lol Such a lithe entity, the Scotch mist, that precedes the downpour.. I love to turn my face towards the heavens and gently close my eyes as it flutters against my eyelids.. cheeks.. Lips. Its antics can be likened to those of temperamental lovers indulging in a salacious display of foreplay; gaining momentum for that great epoch of release.. The ebb and flow of life intrinsically comes full circle and I am ravished with joy! (Update: Resist temptation, I most certainly did not; I pandered to my fancy and did indeed, take a leisurely stroll in the rain in my button down shirt, barefoot, AND embellished my hair with a lovely bi-colored hibiscus! LOL)
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Copyright © 2016 by Suman Alana Birju. All rights reserved. No part of this may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission. For information please email: alana_1982@rocketmail.com Donations are welcome.

Café au lait, s’il vous plaît.

On ‘G-Day’ (or General Day– kudos to kith and kin for the gem of a witticism) or the day that cursory care of my body is succeeded by meticulously preening á la the birdies and kitties, I oft pause to ponder the rich lore vis-à-vis birthmarks. The cutesy Café au lait stain that embellishes my left thigh has always kindled a series of wanton musings since in its most rudimentary capacity there has no yet been an apt explanation proffered by medical professionals for the presence of these so-called anomalies. I dare digress and venture to say that “anomalies” render character whereby we each do our own kind of beautiful. The internet has offered some invaluable and quite colorful insights on birthmarks but the most memorable and thought-provoking proved to be a stroll down memory lane and it was not without a sliver of nostalgia that an abrupt recollection of my maternal grandmother’s implicit belief that my mother’s food cravings perhaps went unfulfilled during my sojourn in her tummy alighted. I contend that there just might be some truth to that. Maybe, it is the peculiar shape of my taint but I could not reasonably fathom anything edible that even remotely resembles it- a crudely handcrafted hash brown? A dollop of mashed potatoes gone awry? It was pretty much like enjoying a banal sun drenched day of cloud watching and your gaze happening upon on a rogue cloud that dared not to conform to a shape o.O The veritable killjoy lol An opting to tweak my perspective some rendered an almost instantaneous recognition of a startling semblance to that little Shangri-La, Tobago.. So, my own take is that a birthmark is a marked mark of an unfulfilled passion for an entity and not necessarily a neglecting to pander to the whims and fancies of the pregnant foodie.. Perhpaps mum’s yearning was a bit of wanderlust that went unsated, suffice it to say I adore my little café au lait and home sweet Tobago too.


Copyright © 2014 by Suman Alana Birju. All rights reserved. No part of this may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission. For information please email: alana_1982@rocketmail.com Donations are welcome.


Burfday musings of a quasi-gerontophobe

As my 32nd. birthday draws nigh, a proclivity to reflect on the past year’s eventuation (and at times, the lack thereof) has arisen and with it an almost desperate desire to do right by my self. My salad days, though still in sight are brusquely scudding by in rear view. I am reluctant to err further in my life as it can only be chalked up to my being a prize dolt as opposed to one wallowing in the luxury of youthful folly. Egad.. It seems like only yesterday that I was sitting pretty on 29’s perch & deliciously impervious to the daunting ascent ‘over the hill’ that I would unceremoniously embark upon that was turning 30.

Fast forward to two years later & there is a marked absence of all anticipatory, gung-ho feelings that colored the dawning of each birthday of the yesteryears. Instead, quid pro quo is its anti-thesis- an overwhelming sense of foreboding borne out of a painful awareness of ‘stills’ & growing older.. like I am still a proletariat.. or how about the fact that I am still stricken with bouts of mental angst leftover by the fug of the past’s vicissitudes.. or still trifling the days away on love’s stoop, waiting for the big ‘un & our “happily ever after” to begin. As I ponder the syntactic of the subsequent sentence I am peering gloomily at my reflection in the mirror, tugging at my cheeks & making unnatural faces in a shallow endeavor to recapture a more aesthetically pleasing appearance and even fervidly hoping to happen upon an epiphany that would sate my troubled mind. Nothing. It is now incumbent upon me for my own sanity’s sake to muster the fortitude to cherish even a sliver of hope that kismet has yet to bestow on me, its best. On vile days it is this simple belief that will keep me, keeping on. Today is one of those days.

There is within the innermost recesses of my psyche, a tiny ember- a token, mosaic of my most intimate yearnings.. An irrefutable, gentle reminder that I once implicitly believed in the feasibility of anything. That I was not always a ruddy cynic. I hear a faint whisper permeating the wistfulness… I will do well to remember that birthdays mean that especial time that I could tuck happily into that chocolate cake, that I could acknowledge with pomp “You’ve come a long way, baby” (à la Virginia Slim ;), that b-days are meant to be peppered with shenanigans that are as timeless and acceptable at any old age (no pun intended), that a new year is about to unfurl & a resolute will to make the best of the rest of my life is only but a resolve away..that birthdays are a magical time, when wishes are made and forlorn hope tossed to the curb. Amidst the tumult of the Pandora’s Box that is my mind, my wish as I snuff out the merry little flicker of a b-day candle is quite simple- my wish is to regain that sublime perception of life, to just be happy no matter what the morrow may bring.cupcake


Copyright © 2014 by Suman Alana Birju. All rights reserved. No part of this may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission. For information please email: alana_1982@rocketmail.com Donations are welcome.


 

Ode to the Voyagers

Fated to forever pander to the whims of wanderlust, the Voyager spacecrafts have inexplicably touched the recesses of my psyche. Perhaps I will wax eloquent with my persevering to write about it. Now my pet interest, scouring the internet for corresponding novel data has become a daily ritual and satiates some, my hunger for mental pabulum; unalloyed delight and great relaxation, its primary derivates. Mere months prior, a displeasing sequence of events led to my becoming acquainted with, and subsequently being enamoured of, Voyager, en bloc. A welcome serendipity. The plucky little space probe has imbued within me a spirit of great elation and humility from its humble human conceptualization to its gargantuan feats in the realm of astronomy and astrophysics. A veritable red-letter day, Voyager 1’s recent, intrepid entry into interstellar space is nothing shy of a rebirth of its bequest which has prompted the spectre of intrigue to rear its head, athwart, a rendering of perspective anew.

It is astounding to contemplate that in the abyss of space, Voyager, an earthly peripatetic pennant borne of mankinds’ greatest primal yearnings, is reckoning phantasmagoria that I, we.. only dare ever fathom. I find myself being gently reminded of my authentic self’s proclivities and the invaluable insight it proffers to me in my own quest to myself and I derive an impalpable peace and respite. Voyager’s kismet mirrors mankind’s own fate, a series of unfurling transient events that is coddled in a blanket of mysticism but that which should infinitely be approached with great élan for that is all there ever will be of any of us.


Copyright © 2013 by Suman Alana Birju. All rights reserved. No part of this may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission. For information please email: alana_1982@rocketmail.com Donations are welcome.