Murid's Poems

The Mihrab

2009-07-19T09:15:00.000-07:00

There she sits, the boy who was not a boy;
No boy could have been as she. Her mother vowed
From deep in the heart beneath which she dwelled in peace,
Her sleep undisturbed by any touch. Her joy
At the birth turned close to woe: ‘Hath He allowed
My pledge to come to naught?’ Then came release
As certitude settled in. He does not slight
The vows of those who dwell beneath His Holy Light.

But what can be done about the ancient ways
Of the Holy House? And who will take her custody?
She has been offered; none can turn her back.
And so he takes her in. And so she stays
Within the closed mihrab, in pure simplicity;
No boy could have been as she. She does not lack
Of heart, or soul, or mind, or breath, or prayer,
Or sustenance, which comes to her as comes the air.

Thus Zachariah, finding her, exclaims,
‘Whence came you this?’ And she, astonished, says,
‘Do you not know? He gives to whom He wills
Without account,’ her words igniting flames
Of hope within his breast. And so he prays
For life drawn from his life, as life fulfils:
‘Lord, God, from whom came life where there was none,
Renew my life! Grant unto me a living son!’

(07-04-2008)

Hadra

2008-04-07T08:57:00.000-07:00

Rising, falling, rising, falling,
Turn towards a glorious aim.
Close your eyes and use true vision:
See the Living! Say the Name!

Grasp the hand of him beside you,
Seek his aid. He does the same,
Let the Spirit flow between you:
Close the circle! Say the Name!

Cast aside your independence,
Leave behind all thoughts of fame.
Merge into a greater oneness:
Join the body! Say the Name!

Let the shepherd in the centre
Guide you. Be both wild and tame;
Find the freedom in the shackles:
Welcome slavehood! Say the Name!

Breathe. Your life is born of breathing,
And the first breath from Him came.
All the world is breathing with you:
Breathe the Spirit! Say the Name!

Dance the dance that never ceases,
Play the glorious, Godly game.
Allah! Allah! Allah! Allah!
Allah! Allah! Say the Name!

22/03/2008

Sonnet for the Old Country

2008-03-25T12:01:00.000-07:00

I never learned your language, though I tried
It more than once: cassette tapes, then CDs.
Each time I started strong, and then it died;
It seems that distance weakens family trees.
And thick as blood can be, it can be thinned
By years in isolation from the heart,
And one by one the notebooks were all binned,
Repeating their refrain: one more false start.

But though my tongue shrinks yet from all the twirls
And twists that you demand, still I can hear
The singing of the water as it swirls,
The whisper of the trees as I grow near.
And as the sun’s rays make the ripples glisten,
Speak to me of my father’s land. I’ll listen.
24/03/2008

Ode to the Dead

2008-03-24T11:26:00.000-07:00

It’s been a while since I last went to see

The graves of those who died before I lived.

Though they still lie where they last were, it seems

That I am not the same. How could it be

That I have not found time? Even my dreams

Are dull without the visits of the dead.

Yet why should it be they who visit me,

Whilst I lie in my bed,

Full free to rise if I so choose, yet they

Are pent to rest in theirs till Judgement Day?

But why should mighty mountains care if men

Climb on their backs like swarms of ants, and why

Should open oceans pine for ships to sail

Across their vast immense expanses, when

Infinitude is theirs? Behind the veil

The dead return to whence they came: the Whole.

The Spirit lends its own wholeness to them,

The undiminished soul

In which they swell, and grow, and climb. Why, then,

Should they need us to visit them at all?

Yet men are mountains too, in their own way,

And locked inside each human heart, there lies

A universe, expanding endlessly;

A sun, whose light transcends all night and day.

And every mountain, high as it may be,

Cannot be such without its valley floor;

The deepest depths of every living sea

Are fastened to the shore.

All things by each are granted life, and thus

We need the dead. So too, the dead need us.

16/03/2008

Ibn Mashish

2008-03-23T08:10:00.000-07:00

Some things are difficult for us to ken
Yet there is also truth, and truth is blind,
And oak trees burst out of the hearts of men.

No matter what a person’s acumen
Each one is limited by their own mind:
Some things are difficult for us to ken.

And what reaction is appropriate when
We reach the summit of the peak to find
That oak trees burst out of the hearts of men?

From deep within the most secluded den
There came an outpouring of verse refined;
Some things are difficult for us to ken.

The poet spoke with neither tongue, nor pen;
His verse was of an elemental kind,
For oak trees burst out of the hearts of men.

Some graves are domed and decorated, then
There are the ones that you can barely find.
Some things are difficult for us to ken,
And oak trees burst out of the hearts of men.

22/03/08

Terza Rima for a Train Journey

2008-03-23T08:07:00.000-07:00

For a brief moment the tunnel emerged into light,
And suddenly we were high above the ground
Among sheer faces of rock, and all was height, and height.

There was not time to take in what we found
Before again we were between dark walls,
The echo of the trundling wheels the only sound.

Yet even as my memory of the journey palls
That briefest moment is the one that calls, and calls.

22/03/08

Statement of Purpose

2008-03-23T08:04:00.000-07:00

I've decided to recapture my indolent teenage years by writing some poetry. It's not good enough to try and publish, so I'm putting it here, instead! Comments would be very, very helpful, please!