I just completed a migration of this blog to its new home, still reachable via khamuk.com. I won't be posting here anymore :-).

On Separation

To see a flower open into sun,
To hear the crack of dawn in sparrow's tweet,
To breathe the sounds of children having fun
Through syncopated pats of toddler feet;
And then to leave that all behind to join
The wheel that swallows everything it finds
To spin its labor straw into a coin
As shiny as its meal of chewed-up minds;
It's hard upon a silent, weary eye
That misses hearts long dead and longer cherished,
That knows no inability to cry
And cries so long as longing hasn't perished.
The solemn rite of weeping in the rain
Is all a fool for love can hope to gain.

On The Homeless Guy At Jackson And Dearborn

The crowds are flowing eastward, like a stream
Of jackets, backpacks, hoodies, scarves and shoes
And Dunkin Donuts cups exhaling steam
Right past a tenor hawking morning news.
I see a man propped up against a wall,
He hardly moves, I wonder if he's dead,
Then let the thought recede as quarters fall
Compelling him to nod his woolen head.
I'm in a cozy lounge across the street
With sonnetry upon my mind and phone,
While he is on the pavement in receipt
Of food he presently has come to own.
I think he would much rather have a home
Than be the subject of a stinking poem.

Why The One Thing Suicide Bombing Cannot Be Is Islamic

Let me begin with a much-needed definition of Islam.

Islam means...

I'll give you a second to complete that sentence in your head. If you said "peace", then you’re likely getting your knowledge of Islam from main stream media and/or well-intentioned Muslims who likely have Peace Train on loop (love that song). And that’s all very cool. The only problem with it is that it waters down the discourse of Islam as a religion followed by an individual for his/her individual salvation.

From an Islam 101 standpoint, Islam does not mean peace. Islam can include a rich discussion of peace. Morphologically, it is very closely linked to the Arabic word for peace. That word is Salaam. In fact, it is so closely linked to Salaam that some say it may as well just mean Peace.

But the fact remains: Islam does not mean peace.

Let me pause again while you battle with that idea, revel in it, or shrug it off, as may be your case.

The word, Islam, is classified as a masdar in Arabic grammar. That is the equivalent of a gerund in English, i.e. a verbal noun. For instance, the verbal noun of “to sleep” is “sleeping”, as used in the sentence: “Sleeping is my favorite pastime.” Islam comes from a four letter root verb: As-la-ma (the four letters being Alif Seen Laam Meem). Aslama means to submit. The gerund of Aslama is Islam. Hence Islam means submitting.

This works better than submission because submission has a quality of being discrete. But submitting is a perpetual state of mind and soul. A Muslim (one who does aslama) is always submitting.

Now let's be honest here. To be in a state of perpetual submission is a rank attained by the prophets and the saints.That being said, perpetual submission is the gold standard. It is the state in which the Muslim is striving to be. It is the rope which the Muslim holds on to. When he or she loses grip (and that is expected), the Muslim struggles with regaining a hold. To a Muslim, Islam means submitting your everything to God. This includes the physical, mental, intellectual, and spiritual facets of submission.

As a Muslim, if you are afflicted with an illness in body or mind (or your spouse or child is), you submit to God's will. You do not resent your state. You certainly do not argue with God. If anything, you recognize that difficulty and ease both come from One indivisible God. That is why the Muslim draws close to the One who ultimately caused the affliction. You submit your body and your mind. Not easy.

Similarly, as a Muslim, if you apply your intellect and arrive at a conclusion that is in direct conflict with a tenet of the faith, or that is irreconcilable with a conclusive precept, you submit to God's will. For instance, adopting intellectual recourse to "prove" that pork is acceptable for consumption by a Muslim would reflect a total lack of submission. This level of submission weighs hardest on scholars and thinkers. To submit your intellect is even harder.

The Muslim is always submitting to Divine will and command. Sometimes, the word submitting tends to have a passive connotation, often times in the English language. Islam is a state of active, deliberate and conscious submitting. It takes strength and, oddly, will to put one’s own will second to that of an unseen God.

My favorite story is that of the great wali (saint) Shaykh Abdul Qadir Jilani who once had a vision wherein he sensed a presence that claimed to be divine. It informed him that he had attained greatness and purity, and that he was absolved from having to perform his prayers any more. The Shaykh cursed the presence and sought refuge from the devil before he proceeded to make ablution and say his prayers. Total submission.

What is permitted by God (halaal) is permitted. What is forbidden by God (haraam) is forbidden. And that is where submitting comes into the picture. If nothing were forbidden and everything were permitted, then there is nothing left to submit to begin with. And that is fine if it's what you're looking for, but it would be a different religion than Islam.

Regarding suicide bombing

It is ludicrous in the most unfunny way that given the above primer on Islam, an act that involves careful and deliberate planning to take one's own life and with it the life of innocents, can in any way be associated with a religion that by its most intrinsic definition and self-defining name means submitting.

The act of planning and executing the destruction of one’s own life is in effect one saying to God: You are The One Who Takes Life, but I will stand between you and your Divine attribute, and I will end my own life of my own free will. I will not submit my body and my mind to you.

To take the life of others along with your own life is in effect saying to God: You forbid the taking of innocent lives, but I have thought about this and after due deliberation, I have concluded that killing innocents is actually quite justifiable. And just to be more unsubmitting, I will take the life of others even as I take my own life of my own free will. I will not submit my intellect and my spirit to you.

Suicide bombing is the most glaring manifestation of everything that is the opposite of Islam. It comes from a flat-out unwillingness to submit to God's will. The fact that the ideology driving and extolling this heinous act claims to be Islamic in any form is a great trial and tribulation. It is a trial for those who truly strive to submit their everything to God, actively and consciously. It is a tribulation for us all.

And God knows better.

Based on a recent reading of Mishkat Al-Masabih at Darul Qasim by Shaykh Mohammed Amin Kholwadia.

Ekphrasis of Meghan Tutolo's "Young Night"

My free verse entry for Rattle's November 2015 Ekphrasis contest. On Meghan Tutolo's Young Night.

Hand in hand, we take it all in:
The babble of the river,
The whisper of the wind,
The fading scream of a police siren
Somewhere on the other side of town
Making a play for the night's attention,
But the night only has eyes for us:
You and me,
Standing hand in hand,
Taking it all in.

I squeeze your hand,
You smile that I'm not going to smile smile
That you often wield on nights like this,
And I squeeze your hand,
Again.

The night is young
And ours,
All of it.

The Ghazali Children's Project by Fons Vitae & Hamza Yusuf

This is an awesome venture. Support this effort by the amazing Aisha Gray Henry and her team at Fons Vitae. I just did!

I would love this for my kids. Getting them exposed to the Ihya at a young age will help prepare their hearts to receive this knowledge more comprehensively in a classroom setting when they're ready for it - one that immerses them in the great Imam's magnum opus. I know Darul Qasim has this on their radar. This is such a great service by Fons Vitae and Shaykh Hamza Yusuf.

Here's a poem I wrote some years back, inspired by a lecture delivered by Shaykh Amin in an Introductory Theology class at Darul Qasim in which he alluded to Imam Ghazali's ingenious allegory for tauheed (divine unity).

THE ANT AND THE QUILL

Behind a generous well of ink,
There stood an ant so wee,
And nothing was around him that
Was littler than he.

He watched with great amazement as
A giant feather quill
Descended into blackness, then
Remained to drink its fill.

And thus the quill withdrew before
Returning for its sips,
Which made the ant to wonder what
Transpired tween the dips;

He ventured round the glassy well
And out his head did poke
To find the quill make strokes on what
Reminded him of oak,

And marveled at the written work,
Extolled the feather quill:
How utterly magnificent
Was its creative skill,

But as he watched, his eye did catch
Five fingers, slender, long
That grasped the feather quill with care:
A grasp so firm and strong,

And so the ant was overcome
With admiration true
For how the hand did wield the quill
To all its bidding do;

But short lived is such wonderment
For soon the ant did see
The subtle motions of an arm
That moved about so free.

The arm he traced to what he deemed
The body of a beast
With head and face that comely seemed
And noble at the least.

So turned he from the noble face,
Content he would not find
What underlay the vast of space
That leaves the seeing blind.

But man, unlike the ant, can see
Much more than just a face,
For knowledge of the intellect
Is with the human race;

The guided eye may even see
Beyond the intellect
Where inspiration is the light
That hearts of men reflect.

And so beside the inkwell of
Divine creation, we
Extol the means, but turn away
From what we cannot see.

But even did the little ant
Acknowledge with a sigh,
That all creation springs from One
Well hidden from the eye.

Aashoorah

This older post seems relevant during these days of Aashoorah marking the liberation of the Children of Israel from the oppression of a tyrant king.
http://www.khamuk.com/2014/04/rabb.html

Just Another Day

The Shakespearean sonnet helped me restrict length and force an equal distribution of breath to all three stories. The conclusion (Part 4) is intended to set an introspective mood.

Part 1: She

She tuned out all the noise around her to
Resolve the last equation in her head.
It is a thing resourceful students do
To bide their time on school bus rides instead.
She owed her sanity to math and shop
The numbers and the wood were her recourse
From arguments at home that wouldn't stop
And parents inching closer to divorce.
But how she loved her sister very much,
Her twin, her friend for life, it made her smile
To feel her sister's hand reach out and touch
Her own, they sat together for a while.
They left the bus and parted ways for class,
That's when she saw him standing on the grass.

Part 2: He

The grass was wet, but he was feeling dry,
Although he hadn't slept the night before,
He didn't spend a moment thinking why:
That ship had sailed, and left behind, the shore.
He'd known the combination all along
And found in there the fully loaded Glock
He'd long believed that he didn't belong
The time had come to break free from the flock.
He chucked the cigarette and made his way
Across the yard without another thought
Then walked right in (was just another day)
Without the slightest care he would be caught.
He went straight down the hallway and began
To execute more than his deadly plan.

Part 3: They

She set the papers in the usual place
As tiny feet tapped syncopated beats
To send a golden sunshine to her face
That greeted students rushing to their seats.
The ultrasound had said it was a boy,
Then someone made a joke about her size,
She joined the laughter, planning to enjoy
Whatever kept the humor in her eyes.
She passed the graded papers out before
Announcing there would be another test,
Then touched her belly lovingly once more.
And that was when she felt the need to rest:
Why was the flooring pressed against her cheek?
She couldn't breathe, she had no strength to speak.

Part 4: We

They're dead. They're dead. They're dead. They're dead. They're dead.
They're dead. They're dead. They're dead. They're dead. They're dead.
They're dead. They're dead. They're dead. They're dead. They're dead.
They're dead. They're dead. They're dead. They're dead. They're dead.
They're dead. They're dead. They're dead. They're dead. They're dead.
They're dead. They're dead. They're dead. They're dead. They're dead.
They're dead. They're dead. They're dead. They're dead. They're dead.
They're dead. They're dead. They're dead. They're dead. They're dead.
They're dead. They're dead. They're dead. They're dead. They're dead.
They're dead. They're dead. They're dead. They're dead. They're dead.
They're dead. They're dead. They're dead. They're dead. They're dead.
They're dead. They're dead. They're dead. They're dead. They're dead.
It was supposed to be another day.
Tomorrow may be just another day.

Staring

I'm on my back, and staring into space
And though my eyes seem vacant, they are filled
With broken spirits from another place
Where mothers watch their children being killed.
It doesn't matter who the killers are,
It doesn't matter who the bleeding be,
What matters is that although I am far,
I feel the dark effect it has on me.
For laying frozen on my bed, I stare
As if each passing second is my toil
Against this grave oppression laying bare
My shallow games of empathy that spoil
An evening of laughter, games and fun,
And lists of silly things that must be done.

Classical Poetry Lives

I was at the Rivulets 2015 Launch event earlier this afternoon. The Chicago Tribune covered it:
http://www.chicagotribune.com/suburbs/naperville-sun/community/chi-ugc-article-naperville-writers-group-rivulets-27-launch-2015-10-01-story.html

I was asked to recite one of my submissions - On Riverside Walks, and that I did.

I also learned I was one of the four runners-up to the Founder's Prize for Poetry for my submission, On Forgetting To Remember. And that was cool.

Given the above were both sonnets, I am happy to say <insert post title here>.

A good day overall.

I Don't Care

Do you think it fair to say I may care
When I care enough to say: "I do not care."

I think it depends on how I may say it,
With distance in tone or rebellious gait,

An arching of eyebrows, a smile forged in hell,
Or the weight of the world in the sighs I expel.

I hereby do gather the silence you spare
Is a deafening statement that you do not care.

On His Weakness

A ten line stanza in iambic pentameter following the scheme ABAB and a Miltonian sestet CDEDCE. Styled after the first stanza of Keats' Ode On A Grecian Urn, and guaranteed to fall short.

Warning: Elizabethan tone ahead

...all for the want of Short Rib Ragù.

What magic doth transpire tween mind and pot

That warmly welcometh what once formed cage,

But now is seasoned, salted, shredded, brought

To tenderness thy hand hath come to gauge.

I sense the bay leaf draping sprigs of thyme,

Its fragrance courting parsley laying soft

Upon a bed of blushing carrots and

Rosemary aromatic, wont to waft

Toward my sense olfactory till I’m

Impassioned forth to rise and kiss thine hand.

Punishing Clockmakers, And Other American Pastimes

We're hurting bad, America,
You know we're hurting bad
When a schoolboy brings a project in
That sends us kicking mad.

He just made a clock, this thing that tells
The time with gears and wires,
But we see the clocks that brown hands forge
As objects starting fires.

Doesn't matter what you learn in school,
Let me tell you what makes dumb:
Is when prejudice and fear
Fashion every rule of thumb.

You say guns don't kill, people do,
Yet a schoolboy's doing time.
Need a license now to make a clock?
Now, learning is a crime.

If we really don't like bullies
And the weapons that they draw,
We can't let bullies run our schools
Nor let them press the law.

Broken

What can I say! What can I do!
How can I deserve to stand before you!
I am like my raiment, divided in two:
One that I know, the other knows You.

But I don't know the other.

All of the dirt that covers my heart
Is on my skin now, I'm falling apart,
I smell of the foulness I've wrought with my hand,
I'm broken so fine, I'm one with the sand.

But I long to find the other me,
I'm blind although I can see,
And the words that I write that I may be free
Make me slave to my each fantasy.

Take me now and let me be free.
Help me now that I may find me.

My Palace Isn't Big Enough

A sonnet deploring the apathy and inaction of wealthy neighbors letting hapless refugees seek out asylum far away from home. The use of first person here points to government rather than citizen.

My palace isn't big enough for you
And me, so I suggest you take a ride
Just down the street to where a pot of stew
May see a face that has no place to hide.
My gross insensitivity may seem
Disgusting to the world, but how can one
By any measure realize his dream
With mendicancy blocking out the sun.
I need my oil to generate me power,
And power runs the air conditioning:
You know we need it hour after hour
To cool the passions all this wealth can bring.
So let me breathe and be now on your way,
My gold will weigh me down another day.

Clear As Fog

Order. It pervades all things, inextricably linking what we sense in this world with what we cannot beyond it. It's everywhere.

The stars above, and the galaxies of souls below.
The tongue, and the eternal Garden it tends to.
The soft bloom of a rose welcoming sun, and a prayer answered.
The silent obeisance of the trees, and the circumambulation of the planets.
I imagine the marauding armies of men portending hosts of avenging angels joined in ranks, faithfully holding back for an appointed time.
I suppose then that one may hope to divine the next move of a man by looking to what his child has done.

But then I also expect rain at my every act of heedlessness. It seldom falls.

In Sonnet

Each thing that meets the eye is but a sign
Of something that lives on beyond this earth;
Our souls reflect celestial design,
And cool remembrance brings a Garden's birth;
The answer to a prayer like the sun
That bathes the petals of a blooming rose;
The silent bowing of the trees as one
To match the manner every planet goes.
I wonder if the blood that armies spill
Portends a host of angels foming ranks
Awaiting the allowance of their will
To carry out the justice it demands.
I often think my sins will bring the rain,
But all that falls are hopes that rise again.

In Honor of Childhood Daydreams

Don't mind me, little boy, carry on with your stare
Past the faces in the room into the void out there,
You may be here in the flesh, but your heart's elsewhere;
And that's fair.

There is so much to see, and so much to hear,
Much to reject, and much to hold dear,
Let the light in your eyes slay the darkness you fear;
Go on, peer!

There's a lot we know, and a lot we don't,
It seems the more that we learn, the more we won't;
Take a break from what shines through the apps you own
On your phone.

Walking

I can walk all I want,
I can go any place,
With my heart in my hand, and my feet on the road
And the sun in my face.

I can sing all I want
To the tune of my soul,
I can reach very high, grab a handful of sky
And decide I am whole.

But each shadow's a sign
To an eye that can see
Through the fog of the sin that it finds itself in,
Yes, I'm talking 'bout me.

And the laughter like wine
Makes the colors all dance
Till you turn your eyes down, as you look to the ground
At a shadow of chance.

Now I'm seeking a place
Past the reaches of space
Where no shadow is born, and a soul that is torn
May be mended by grace.

Now My Heart Is An Ocean

There runs a stream from every limb,
A river from each organ,
And every single one that flows
From the top of my head
To the tips of my toes,
Yes, each one drains my plains and goes
Down into the seas of my heart.

And there it splashes against the cliffs
Of my transgression,
Mixing with the salt of my sin.
Now my heart is an ocean,
And my journey may begin.
But where does an ocean go?

It goes to my eyes and streams down my face
As I fall to my knees in utter disgrace
Till the winds of forgiveness blow on its waves
Of hope for this lowly, most hapless of slaves.

Yes, there's hope in these tears
To put out the flames
Of a fire that taunts me
By all of my names.

Let them flow till the seas of my heart become calm,
Till my face feels the kiss of eternal Salaam.

Bartering Our Souls For "Peace" - Srebenica Twenty Years On

As we mark twenty years since the brutal killings in a Bosnian town of over 8,000 Muslim boys and men ranging from ages 12 to 77, we are faced with emerging evidence bringing into focus the unfortunate role of the free world in the commission of what has been called the "worst massacre on European soil since the Third Reich". Details around how a safe area came to be presented to the Serb death-squads are chilling, no doubt.

Photo courtesy guardian.co.uk: man praying at the gravesites of Srebenica

But there is something even more disturbing than the actual genocide itself. This was clearly not the first time an act of ethnic cleansing had shocked the world. If we restrict ourselves to a simple game of numbers, the killing of 8,000 boys and men is a drop in the ocean of genocide that the twentieth century alone has seen. (Wikipedia List of genocides by death toll.) No, the numbers are not interesting. But the politics is.

It is one thing that the Serbian killing machine had overrun Srebenica, and the likes of Mladic had personally overseen the separation of boys as young as twelve and their fathers and grandfathers from their mothers, sisters, daughters and wives. While the women and girls were sent off to "Muslim territory", a collective term for the horrors that awaited them as they were delivered to their new homes, the boys and their fathers and their grandfathers were transported to the lush fields around the town and cut down by soldiers, men who were beginning to reel under the fatigue of playing executioners. 

Killing is hard work, even with guns. To send metal flying at over twice the speed of sound, tearing open the chests and heads of twelve and thirteen year-old boys can take a toll on the sickest of hearts.

So, yes, that is all one thing.

But it is another thing for a massacre on a scale of this magnitude to not just occur, but flourish on the watch of a group that was instituted for the very purpose of preventing such oppression, an institution called the United Nations that is held as the positive culmination of the great lessons learned from World War II. Sure, there were hostages - 30 soldiers of a Dutch contingent - whose lives were threatened if Srebenica wasn't handed over quietly. But now we read of this:

According to declassified US cables details of the killings reached western intelligence and decision makers soon after they began on 13 July; CIA operatives watched almost “live” at a satellite post in Vienna. From that day, spy planes caught what was happening. “Standing men held by armed guard. Later pictures show them lying in the fields, dead,” according to one cable.

A senior state department official insists: “All US partners were immediately informed.” Yet the slaughter was allowed to run its course, no attempt made to deter the killers, or to locate the men and boys, let alone rescue them.

The next day, 14 July, the UN security council said it feared “grave mistreatment and killing of innocent civilians”; it said it had received “reports that 4,000 men and boys have gone missing”. But the diplomats continued business as usual.

...

...

Pauline Neville-Jones, then political director at the British Foreign Office, argued as late as 2009: “It still remains to be established whether the Serbs had a long-range intention to do just that [massacre men and boys]. Serb forces engaged in an ethnic cleansing campaign to rid Srebrenica of its Muslims [which] eventually became genocide when the decision was made to separate men targeted for extinction.”

Jean-Claude Mallet, the director of strategy at the French defence ministry, says in an interview: “I had no illusion that atrocities would be committed. We had reported that. But never such as the ones that occurred.”

The International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia rejects these views, ruling that the killings were premeditated well in advance. In the conviction of the Bosnian Serb general Radislav Krstic for aiding and abetting genocide at Srebrenica, the court ruled: “Without detailed planning, it would have been impossible to kill so many people in such a systematic manner in such a short time, between 13 July and 17 July.”

The International Court of Justice would rule in 2007: “It must have been clear that there was a serious risk of genocide in Srebrenica.”

France’s foreign minister at the time, Alain Juppé, says in an interview: “We all knew the men would be annihilated, or at least that the Serbs were not sparing the lives of prisoners”. 

Source: http://www.theguardian.com/world/2015/jul/04/how-britain-and-us-abandoned-srebrenica-massacre-1995

And this:

But a new investigation of the mass of evidence documenting the siege suggests much wider involvement in the events leading to the fall of Srebrenica. Declassified cables, exclusive interviews and testimony to the tribunal show that the British, American and French governments accepted – and sometimes argued – that Srebrenica and two other UN-protected safe areas were “untenable” long before Mladic took the town, and were ready to cede Srebrenica to the Serbs in pursuit of a map acceptable to the Serbian president, Slobodan Miloševic, for peace at any price.

But as they considered granting Srebrenica to the Serbs, western powers were also aware, or should have been, of the Bosnian Serb military “Directive 7” ordering the “permanent removal” of Bosnian Muslims from the safe areas. They also knew Mladic had told the Bosnian Serb assembly, “My concern is to have them vanish completely”, and that Karadžic pledged “blood up to the knees” if his army took Srebrenica.

Robert Frasure, a US diplomat working as an international representative, reported to Washington that Miloševic would not accept a peace map unless the safe areas were ceded to the Serbs. His boss, Anthony Lake, the US national security adviser, favoured a revised map that ceded Srebrenica, and the US policy-making Principals Committee urged that UN troops “pull back from vulnerable positions” – ergo, the safe areas.

France and Britain agreed, with UK defence secretary Sir Malcolm Rifkind arguing that the safe areas were “untenable”, as defended in 1995. As Mladic’s troops advanced on Srebrenica, the west failed to heed warnings of the town’s imminent fall. Once it had, says General Van der Wind of the Dutch defence ministry, in an exclusive interview with the Observer, the UN provided 30,000 litres of petrol, used by the Serbs to drive their quarry to the killing fields and plough their bodies into mass graves.

As the killing hit full throttle, top western negotiators met Mladic and Miloševic but did not raise the issue of mass murder, even though unclassified US cables show that the CIA was watching the killing fields almost “live” from satellite planes.

The shocking findings of high-level willingness in London, Washington and Paris to cede Srebrenica were collated over 15 years by Florence Hartmann, a former Le Monde correspondent, for a book, The Srebrenica Affair: The Blood of Realpolitik. Hartmann worked as a spokeswoman for the prosecutor at the international criminal tribunal for the former Yugoslavia between 2000 and 2006.

Source: http://www.theguardian.com/world/2015/jul/04/west-true-role-in-srebrenica-massacre-bosnia

I can't speak for the British and French roles in all of this. But as an American, my respect for the law of this land, and my faith in its immense potential for goodness, empower me to hold my government to a level of accountability commensurate with its unique position in the world. When words of grief are spoken in Srebenica next weekend, it would be an obscenity at the very least for America to not acknowledge its inaction to attempt (not succeed, but just attempt) to use the intelligence and certain knowledge it had to stop that tragic massacre.

We all tear up when Peter Parker hears the words of his late uncle echo in his mind. "With great power, comes great responsibility." It is time we own up to the values we espouse, to end the hypocrisy and take ownership of our failings. We must not be wary to go on record and acknowledge such failure. That would be cowardice and against everything we believe in. Rather what we must be wary of are the long term consequences of a silence that makes no sense in a nation that prides itself upon making some noise. It is a silence that will surely undermine and mock our current and future efforts to navigate the bloody oceans of world peace. Let's show some backbone. Let's be the proverbial grownup in a house full of children, and stand for the justice we are committed to as a nation.

The souls of the boys and men that perished in the violence of Srebenica twenty years ago may well be alive and at peace. What should keep us awake at night is whether we who are left behind, in our drunken pursuit of a perception of peace at any cost, have lost our souls.

Moment

There is a moment in the still night air
That passes by a pair of swollen feet,
A moment when each heart submerged in prayer
Breathes in the sweetest fragrance of retreat,
When all of space is folded in a tear,
And time compressed into a Word Divine,
It is a moment cool, compact and clear
Like drops of shiny dew upon a vine.
You seek this moment fervently without
And speak of it at every chance you win,
But all that ever matters is about
A silent search entirely within.
There is a moment in the still night air,
A moment that is you submerged in prayer.

Inspired by Shaykh Amin's profound words on Laylat-ul-Qadr.

Sahoor

Inspired by Shaykh Amin's talk on sahoor from a couple nights ago.

There is a moment magical

When day breaks free from night,

When seed is split and life begins,

Witnessing Allah's Might.

But when the hand of man does it,

It fashions pain and strife;

It takes the Hand of God to split

And manufacture life.

The use of magical here is deliberate. Shaykh Amin pointed out that the Arabs observed the magic in daybreak, giving rise to sihr and sahoor stemming from the same three-letter root. Fascinating!

I'll Have A Guest

One more day... 
I wrote this for the kids. If anyone out there has stanzas to contribute, email me or add in a comment below.
----
Let's tidy home and break the oud
And set its fragrance free,
Let the money flow, and the faces glow
With smiles of charity.

    'Cause I'll have a guest when the Ramadan moon,
    The Ramadan moon is born,
    Is on its way, and will be here soon
    To mend my spirit that's torn.

To stay by me through the midday heat,
And to quench my burning thirst
With a drink of Quran to help defeat
Myself when I'm at my worst.

    I'll have a guest when the Ramadan moon,
    The Ramadan moon is born,
    Is on its way, and will be here soon
    To mend my spirit that's torn.

To carry me on a wink of sleep
Through the night until the dawn
And to teach my eye to swell and weep
Before my guest is gone.

    I'll have a guest when the Ramadan moon,
    The Ramadan moon is born,
    Is on its way, and will be here soon
    To mend my spirit that's torn.

To taste that sweet remembrance, comes
In a cool and timeless night
When the wakeful eye of a slave becomes
Awash with eternal light.

    Oh, I'll have a guest when the Ramadan moon,
    The Ramadan moon is born,
    Is on its way, and will be here soon
    To mend my spirit that's torn.

Let's tidy home and break the oud
And set its fragrance free,
Let the money flow, and the faces glow
With smiles of charity.

    Oh, I'll have a guest when the Ramadan moon,
    The Ramadan moon is born,
    Is on its way, and will be here soon
    To mend my spirit that's torn.

Poetry Potluck & On The Spot

I entered On The Not So Many Things I Cannot Stand into the poetry pot luck and Bryce J. nailed it.

The On-the-spot prompt was Good Advice Gone Bad.  I couldn't come up with any advice, so I decided to call my father before the first event began and asked him to blurt out any advice that came to him. I managed to contrive a Shakespearean sonnet, but I think it lacked the punch needed for a winning performance. I should have gone with a rap.

My father, bless him, always used to say,
"Son, always mind the company you keep."
I took it in a literal sort of way,
Not bothering to wade the waters deep.
And so I hung with folks of manner mild,
Avoided rubbing tattoo-laden shoulders
And chose to steer clear from the wild,
Preferring peace among the office folders.
And this was how I navigated years,
Assuming good was good and flocking to it,
Until my poor judgement fell in tears
Reminding me how terribly I blew it.
I should have listened closer when my Dad
Advised me how to tell the good from bad.