The SFTS Lodge hereby acknowledges the passage of our friend and fellow Lodge member, Inayat Noel Anderson.
We will miss our fallen comrade and remember him in our hearts until we meet again.
Here is a beautiful poem that Inayat’s wife Peggy Tahir, another friend and fellow Lodge member, wrote for him a few years ago:
Oh my dear, you are my auricular wonder, my needler of light,
my masseuse of prophetic hands, finding spots to unwind me
as I lay motionless without jewelry.
You are my extraterrestrial signpost to galaxies beyond our
milky heavens, my spaceship adorned with winks and cobbles.
The velvety undersides of verisimilitudes paint your names
across the horizon at sunset.
The birches glitter in your late afternoon breezes, and
ocean lifts and curves in the expanse of your breath.
You are my tall cypress of birdnests and singing, my
rainfall of pearls, my wet sidewalk luminescent in pools of streetlight.
The button jars of blue glass, the marbles of blown and
melted sand, sigh against the palms of your hands.
You are my ice cream of late night adventures, my slender
longings, the undergarments of angels.
My mental triangles gorge themselves on your trapezoid
You are the bowl of sliced peaches and strawberries, the
marscapone and whipping cream mounds on walnut shortcakes.
Your gentle gait reflects the order of divinity written by
aquatic plants sweeping against coral.
You are my open-eyed shells in the sand, my silvery grunion
collected in buckets, the splash of my pleasure, tides rising in celestial seas.
The flavors of pansies and nasturtium, the bubbling stock
delirious in transmutation.
All my squash blossoms set into silver, my turquoise
protections and dancing flute players, my large stones of magical dimensions.
You are my shark in the gray waters at Stinson beach
searching for meals of seals.
My excited cartoons appear and disappear in your celluloid ephemera.
My movies in black and white, my old lovesongs, my scratchy vinyls.
You are my night nurse quietly walking through hallways
and dim rooms, carrying your penlight, singing to the dying.
My husband of lifetimes that stream together arranged into
time. My time that falls fast from its hinges.
My melodic singer of Celtic harmonies, my backwards
guitar-player, my left-handed survey of brainsides, my hemispheres of synapses.
You are the extremes of my gravity, all the dreams in your
heart the circumference of sighs, my magnetic raven, my sighs sail toward you,
my six-foot wingspan, and hold you with nothing, my endless
summer, and let go with singing, my flight of a thousand miles.