There’s something I need the world to know: Islam is for the people, all the world’s people. It isn’t an “Eastern” religion for “Eastern” people. It’s a beautiful religion for everyone who feels pulled toward it. Regardless of what the rest of the world says, there is no hierarchy. Those aren’t my…
Pray firm on your knees
Beg the divine
Face flat on the ground.
Humbled by your creator.
Feverish in your
Embarrassed by your weakness.
Shaken by The Oneness
and Celestial Presence.
Pray like your life depends on
every word you utter.
And every emotion that is seeping
every tear fleeting
every stammer and stutter
may find his way to Him
and redeem you.
Pray like you are bathed in sin
and stirred by light.
Like a wandering child lost
whose heart still remembers
the warmth of a mother’s taut embrace.
Pray as if a release of a sigh of a relief
at being found again.
Pray like your death
depends on it.
Driving your ego to submit.
Pray in confusion and when clarity gashes.
Pray for mercy
for protection from jealousy
for heightened sensitivity
and the ability
to see The Almighty
in all forms and sensibilities
Pray for safety
and freedom from calamity
for a light heart
with forgiveness plenty
pray for yourself and pray for many
Pray. Pray. Pray.
How fragile are a commuter’s hopes!
So thready & delicite their wishes!
Taut on a frayed second of a train delayed
a newspaper mislaid
or an accident on the moterway.
Hanging by the thinnest of strings
tethering on a conducter’s whim
steady in routine’s hum drum clockwork microwave-like predictable ping.
How simple are a commuter’s prayers;
that they sincerely arrive safely to work
with the courage to bear,
to do it all over again!
This month is National Poetry Month and I plan to write a poem and post it here every single day. Hopefully this will allow me to grow and better my work and also connect with some wonderful people along the way! So..here goes…
I imagine Rumi sitting across from Keats
sharing a cup of tea on a brisk golden day.
Plath sitting in the other corner
whispering something intimate and warm to
I imagine my favourite poets walking barefoot
on flecks of dewy grass
sharing opinions and political views
and thoughts on race and class.
I imagine T.S Elliot and Hafiz conversing,
I can see it all in my mind.
And so I thank The Creator for books
that allow me to dwell with all these greats at the same time.
I’m from that place of tension,
straddling the worst and best,
of the East and the West.
Tiptoe-ing an insecure boundary between this and that,
and always The Other.
I’m from that place of tension,
where delicate fabrics are interwoven
by senseless gentle souls
and bargained and sold
at busy markets.
Dense with Arabic voices
and rolls of kaleidoscopic fabrics.
Where the smell of pungent coffee maunders through dusky dusty roads,
the harsh heat rising to
mingle with the noise of the country’s survivors
who battle with each other for attention.
See I’m from that place of tension,
that tastes like freshwater salmon
placed with curried okra side by side.
A table with Turkish sweets dripping with honey warm
whilst the rainfall outside continues to storm
across country lanes and cobbled streets.
Keeping its survivors huddled away dreaming of the very same heat
That I Escaped From