NOTE: this is unarchived raw poetry transcripts... it's really just a place holder until I get a more permanent page. You will need an arabic font set if you end up with some gabbledeegook down the line.
The idea of learning a new language at this point in my life seems so entirely beyond my own capabilities. Had I been brought up to do so, raised to know various ways of speech and expression, to add another, having already keyed the secret, would be a mere task of time and concentration. Now, I am so wholly uneducated in the ways of speech, that the very foreignness of the endeavor seems so daunting that I cannot possibly comprehend myself knowing these things. She makes me believe.
In some way I am no better than any other man, but in this case, I am so much more the child. I will not argue for one second that she has lifetimes more to offer me than I could hope to promise her, raising my hands high above my head, holding out what meager portions of wit and intellect I have so far collected.
In many ways I am incredibly disappointed, frustrated that she is not incomprehensibly repulsive. In some thoughts I wish her to appear physically vile, that I would have a chance to prove the nobility of my little infatuation. Though even still, I would be ill prepared to defend my argument for justification of my own place in her life.
I will not spill on about love, about my soul being lit afire, transformed from its ethereal ellipse into a more refined configuration more closely resembling what I would imagine is her ideal. I will not mention the physiological symptoms that crop up to challenge my ability to concentrate, infecting my existence with sweat, palpitations and an unnerving desire to go back far enough in time that I could find her first.
Of course I have made the suggestion before that someone might be Maya, I have had to in order to be capable of entering into a relationship with someone honestly, without constantly thinking about that elusive soul who I dedicate my whole essence to finding.
Each time I say it is different. This only disables my sense of credibility now. The deep disgusting truth that I now see as clearly as the waking world. Things are never simple, romantic or beautiful. In the end this dark truth is something that is realized slowly, like an infection. It does not kill quickly, or with a great announcement, but slowly rots away at the dream that was lived for.
It could easily be understood that by now she would be married. That she would be in love with someone who got to her first; utterly comprehensible. After all, I had the entirety of the globe to search, and I’d barely gotten out of my hometown, and there she is. From half a world away, the luck, the way fate plays out, I am allowed to see her, know she is okay. What is the reason for this? Where is the wisdom in giving me this glimpse of that upon which I have based my entire life, only to now see an impossible scaly wall thrown up in my path.
The idea is vast, and the hope does not dim, somehow, someway, I still believe in the cry of “It is meant to be”. The indelible whistle which lets me know which way the wind is blowing, and thus, which way to raise my sail. I have done the numbers in my head. The age seems right, how long could I have lasted without her anyway? Now that I’ve met her again, this time, I don’t know how long I could here.
My clarity is inconsistent, and it may cost me the game. I must be brilliant and strong, funny, artistic and beautiful. None of this will impact a difference in this situation, but I must try. These are the moments of sacrifice, when all that we believe in must be questioned.
Dreams without motive, when the whole dream exists as a sunny street, third floor room, her elbows on the sill, and my arms reaching forward around her in embrace, smelling the nape of her neck, knowing only that this is home. And home is where instinct always brings us in the end.
This is how I validate the things I now see when I roll back my eyes to breathe. This is the game that I will begin to play. I will not surrender music anymore than I will surrender her. But I must win them both fairly, as neither is mine, nor will they ever be, but both demand my devotion while promising little to nothing in return.
This deep rivalry, which exists solely within the vacuum of this brain, undulating within my veins, so much magnetic impulse residually, nodding towards my own unattended fame, unwanted recognition and unseen forms.
These tiny dancers, spiraling elegantly, elicit such ideals, as would cause a better man to balk, but I continue walking, content to be mindless, and mindful all the same of the better days which past by so many lifetimes ago like slender sails pulling farther and farther from the bay, and touching tenderly amongst the waves, waiting the moment when the shoreline perceptions give way to the greater hopes of reality that beat anticipatory rhythms the farther they get away.
Now it comes time to recognize these significant ways in which the shoreline of my own inner oceans are superimposed on the ways of the sounds that propagate every corner of my mind. Could it be that these oceans are empty. Paper boats alone sail on their crests, and the cries of ancient tribes who once beat mightily towards the horizon were nothing but driftwood, interestingly carved, but random nonetheless. Nonsense. This is the mind of the great warrior, peacefully contained, easily restrained. Something still claims royal presence, and in such words, I am plunged into the cavernous reaches of: “I will not be alone again”. Such utterances were never spoken without the acknowledgment: “No God is there but God”.
She is one with the shapes and curves of my every thought, she is muse, hope, hatred, regret and lines drawn with calligraphic pens, illuminating thoughts too powerful to speak with their every arch and dip, every placement of ink within time, untold by the great ones who once inhabited this plane. We will be here again, and she will again say, yes, but first…. I will again be broken by the unfairness, and again there will be a soul trying to find his one, his French, dark Maya, whom he knows so little about, other than she breathes into his Nostrils and lifts him to the light and not makes him, but gives him reason to be. And he was.
In the beginning.
A waterfall, simple undecorated, flowing from a large plush sofa in a living room where a couple, unable to communicate with one another seem to lap up each others souls like sweet sweet nectar, or the milk from which sweet cream would be too decadent to drink.
A cupboard, within which a small boy sits, in eager anticipation of being found, unallowed to make even the faintest sound, and sweat dripping from his juvenile brow, he thinks to himself: I could have been a teacher if they’d only told me how to breathe.
A sink, within which the water flows from all things, and eventually returns to her highness the earth, clogged with broken dreams, and dirty glances, colored majestic only by the sounds they make as they spiral around down the drain towards the eventual truth of all things.
In this place, all things are at once possible and hopeless, so all people try, and no one succeeds, this is the way it is with dreams, as we spread our seeds in the hopes that the next generation would be closer to its needs, and reach higher to the stars, closer to the skies.
Sweet dreams allow us to face the following day, but each night seems longer than the last, and it would be no great surprise to anyone if one day we did not wake at all. Then we would cease to face the pain which until now has seemed to be quelled only by the dulling qualities of inspiration, and the relief that one more evening in a chair in front of a desk offers on the gnarled road to humanity, the grubby path to a more permanent state of existence.
* * *
She woke slowly, taking time to savor the fleeting essence of being asleep, and wasting no great exertion towards the goals of stretching and smiling fat and content with herself, spread elegant across my disheveled couch, pillows strewn wildly from an intense afternoon nap.
I naturally sat, legs curled under myself on an oversized round chair, across and angled from the couch, having not slept in hours. It was the shoulders that stopped me first. Every time she breathed they rose close to her neck in a faint shrug, as though her whole life was saying: “it’s alright” whatever the situation might have been at the time.
For a moment, as I sat there studying her face while she adjusted to her surroundings, I was plunged into a place where neither of us spoke any language other than what might be communicated by glances and smiles. It was a peaceful moment, the silent prayer that echoed endlessly through the hallways of our better consciences and solidly bounced off the walls of our pasts, for in this moment even they too were permeable to this shared impossible dream.
Lovers. The thought hadn’t entered our minds, it was just us, and that was a condition protected from the human tendency to label every situation and condition until they are all stripped of any perceivable sense of mystery or elegance. Had we kissed? It was too foggy yet to recall such specifics, and it would have made little difference anyhow. Whatever experiences had previously been shared, this was all we had. These moments, with her face pressed against a pillow and my face sobbing to be pressed against her once more.
A lifetime ago, we could have been perfect. This feeling would have been anything but fleeting. Now, it is only our own inability to let go of a moment that prevents it from being lost forever. Soon. Life has a way of giving it’s participants reasons to continue the game with no hope of resolution, no way out or possibility for anything more than an artist’s rendition of what was once beautiful and now is falling apart slowly. Deeply within the courteous niceties that humans so often emanate in lieu of any honest communication or signs of life.
Traveling across the
world
Living in a car…
Auspicious advice
never seemed
So far from divinity
So close to paradise
Cleanliness of mind, easily allows more room for finer thoughts. Before now we were forced to merely imagine what now we can meditate freely on. This revolution, of thoughts and deeds, can in no way find any voice, any interpretation other than that of the truth, which has an uncanny ability to peek out from even the darkest corners of our lives.
Soon this cocoon will be complete, then we will be able to repeat the greatest name, ninety five times in peace, and see the face of the beloved beauty lifting high above the أبها Kingdom, which is at once might, and power, and I am but a meek and powerless الروح who in no way can find his own way home.
Everytime she moves, I stop, whenever she passes, my life flashes before my eyes. I can sing her no songs which will allow her to hear me, no matter how passionately I praise her, I sing her hymn, the melody echoes, tired and old in her sweet ears. I can begin to see my world, as it is an obsessive place, full of spite and fire, combined to face the life that I have been waiting for, praying to be discovered by my own design. Hoping to be stopped, just in the nick of time.
- - -
In this way the best ones are born. Inner monologues give way to better days, which in turn illuminate better moments in time, unable to even begin to cry the tears that lived solely in the trash.
Suddenly, Distances which one seemed impossible to traverse, appear as though they coexist at the same time in exactly the same place. In this way, we are thrust forward, wondering why and how we came to be, and how long until we will again cease to feel loud and unkempt by the wavering of the wind, and the calling of: “Verily, God is capable beyond all things”.
Swept under the floor of whispering men
Allowed to sit with our Fathers.
Punished for allowing our mouse to run…
Free through the halls of the Great Aunt
Who swept the floor with Zen pride,
And allowed her bosom to betray her size.
She was the great one, proud, and fair…
Ruddy brow, hearkening back to a time when
Ruddiness was equated with health;
Not the other way around.
I woke slowly, not fully allowing the alarm to sink into my slumber.
Carefully I rolled from one side to the other, as if I would find the perfect angle by which I could make the sound fully subside.
My luck would not be that fair, and eventually, blankets draped around my torso, forcing me to move with a deliberate clumsiness, vying to pull me back to bed, I made my way to my clock, and pressing firm on its head, was able to bargain for myself at least ten more minutes of paradise, before the deal was through, and the night would be forced on its head by the daylight creeping through shaded windows, doing their best to shield me from the harsh hard truth of another day in a city, which asks so much, and rewards so few.
She comes to me, knowing full well, what her smile creates, her shape indicates. She enjoys every minute of my love, or tender infatuation, which we both know could never become anything more solid then a dream.
Her things, ache as they whisper in the windy summer autumns, which haven’t ceased since they began, stop playing these games, start trailing on your land, and sailing on your bedroom ceiling, while waiting for me, to come over you, and you can finally conclude this dream.
This; she says to me, with a smile, beaming eye to eye, as we have been only a thin layer of reality slides between us, but its material is the most robust in eons.
Come on, you can do better than that! Did you not see her: face hands hair eyes? Did you not breathe her neck? What is that? Neck- May God forgive my wandering thoughts, certainly there is no truth in such objectification, though I objectify her brilliance as well as her body.
These days are getting cumbersome,
I find myself counting back hours while I wait
For brighter things to fill my mood,
But such things pass slowly,
And I am forgotten and anticipate
The days when I will no longer be,
Thunderous and awake.
These hours are getting pointless,
Nothing to do but learn to speak…
Tfdali, I will, go ahead, and continue learning.
Continue, rich, you must continue.
Argh. The costs of production have risen too quickly to maintain such a level of compensation within the productivity that I had thought was there. I can take little more of this, quiet writing work, Give me something to do, besides learn to speak.
Please.
Min Fadlak.
At this moment in time, the world of my existence is in some way clouded, by the world of my wishes. My desire to follow the laws laid out to me by God are given voice through the expression of a girls name, who I would eagerly call ‘wife’ should the cards dictate that this is a path I may follow.
I am fallen struck by the idea of enlightenment within my personal realm, and starlight in my eyes, every night as I doze, to begin to sleep the sleep of a child who has not yet learned the fear and bile possibilities of this universe.
The rapid entourage shaking the walls around my bed, those bitter jidarun, who threaten to destroy me by the very way they shake, and allow little arrows of light to pierce them as their plaster effaces shatter slowly, and reveal cracks long since left by former tenants who bore to much pain to be cleared by a hole perpetrated by a fist.
Last night we spoke, though it was only minutes, and I kept it short. Moments krept on for hours, and my sense of equilibrium was offset by her sense of confidence, and the passage of prose by which she spoke. These same words now light her profile in the chiseled far reaches of my mind, and remind me that time waits for no man, so to continue would require a definitive action on my part, and the bounty might just have reached its mark.
All this time, I have just assumed the part played by my mind, wandering. All of these lifetimes that I have lived in only a few years, constantly on the path of striving, the Tao of the Lost, and hope of the cross, the only redemption offered by those who have strayed this far off course. All this time, I have been looking for her, not expecting to be found. Now, in this strange turnaround, I see several new scenarios which agonize the inner reaches of my self.
Could all of this in fact have come from within me.
Not entirely unlikely as it is where it began in the first place.
The commitments I make, and in turn demand, are overwhelming in terms of their candor and strength, opened slowly, as if corked for years, and the satisfying pop and foam is enough to propel us further on into the night.
I could have been her, thus waiting for my Branford, who would be utterly rejected by my Father. I could have been her, I could be him, points of adoration krept up by the sin that I have left unchecked too long to begin its world and it’s hell, brought to bare by the flames of memory.
She could be her, she with her perfections spilling out from every place, her place unaccounted for instead of understood. I could have been waiting, half way across the world, What a connection, but her decisions were still for a man. Still, he won that round, and achieved, the greatest woman alive.
There have been moments, while this has been written, that actually begin to approach a true sense of emotion, that are actually believable, but the great body of this work, is a waste of time, paper and ink. If I could only focus my work so that the only thing I created was the hopeful writings of truth, I would be well on my way to a hopeful future as a writer, Unfortunately it does not seem the least bit likely.
Boy,
He looks at me
From the ends of wire framed lens
Not entirely relinquishing his thought
‘Where have you been to?’
And I am unable to answer,
The mere sight of his jowls,
Flopping with his every word
Are enough to paralyze me…
This long road back,
Looks increasing apathetic,
My cause, distinctly traumatic
Her words, verily resonant.
Oh my God, where is my direction, my escape from exhaustion, my respite from these tears which whisper their existence in my ears, wildly lit by the hindrance of all times.
Slowly now.
Not to wake her.
Stepping on the backs,
Of worlds alone,
On top of the queens throne,
Where late at night,
In the right shade of moonlight
Small blossoms begin to grow.
YOU! (11/19/01)
Breaking candy colored petals
As I step, but upon auburn fields
Dreams swept under,
Padded carpets, which arrest…
Thoughts cannot return then,
And now, we find things plunged
And dyed in violet hues, stricken.
Vivacious tumors lacking capacity
To instill real harm, still outwardly
Make themselves available-
For untying ropes who once seemed strong.
You!
Walking on your petals.
Testing the depth of your spirit
Every step, deeper, regret vanishing
Into the mist which lacks characteristics,
Normally afforded to such phenomena
Sometime, I was wrong,
Still, I continue on, walking,
Your petals rising up, sinking between
Toes, plunged erelong into your oceans
The sounds of your waves forever captured
And echoed into the husk of my self…
You!
Your mystery undoes my pretensions,
Sweet apprehensions, about plunging…
Too often actions are seen as a plunge,
A lean forward and a lunge,
The hungers are carnivorous,
And my desire is ‘devour’
But as the time approaches,
And the hour passes,
We both ‘make eyes’ and begin to ask
Should we, or should we,
Save the best for last.
11/19/01
Jameelah
Your heart somehow calls to me, your movements strike me, foreign yet somehow familiar, and somewhere inside my own essence I begin to understand the thought of personal revelation.
You and I, cast from not dissimilar stones, unaware of our own, seeing in the other, the wisdom of tasteful intrigue. Have I lived? Must I have experienced more? What are the answers that you demand from me?
Ach, I ache from the assumptions that carry on in my brain, my own matters far too limited to explain. Needless enough, I claim, I wish you to be my bride, to carry on, and to build a life around the things, which the Almighty, the Compassionate has, set forth to be priorities.
Could I interest you in a lifetime or two?
My focus must be entirely more detached then that. I need to begin to understand my own hand in things, and stop acting in such a way as to be considered figment and fragment, concentrated in the near reaches of my cranial cavity.
Here again, am I allowed such access to alliteration, as would seem to be my only defense against poor prose, and worse verse.
Lie to me. Tell me I am perfect for you. That I have seen enough, and have enough to teach you, that the rest we can see together. Hajj! Please, allow me the bounty of experiencing God in such a way that you would be beautiful, and you would be Mualimah! My darling, though I call you not darling, clement, and abashed. I am alone on this one, and still I feel the gravitationally enforced world shifting her balance towards the things which more likely will be construed as a place of Jameel between me and you, a place where Ardh is un-traversable, and where all our hope lies in the knowledge of God, and the words ‘verily he is righteous in all things’.
Allah’u’abha
- The words of the most great name
- Must in no way be ever separate
- From the goals, I now claim
- As motives,
- For the direction of my adoration
- I wish for the strength I could gain
- From her hand through all your worlds.
SONG 1
You, Don’t have to wait. For these sad songs to move you. To me.
You don’t have to sink, into that chair, sad enough already.
Soon enough you will see, the blind man hears things you can only dream about.
Soon enough you will be, close enough to find, the mouth of the river.
“Wouldn’t you like to be, one of the ones who walks on the river…
Unaware of the current sweeping the rest of us away.
Wouldn’t you like to see, the mouth of the river,
Destined to be the source of the love that carries us away…”
You, Don’t have to stay, If this world starts to be, too big, for you.
You don’t have to wait, If I seem to be too slow, for you….
Soon enough I will see, the eye of the storm is a distant calm,
Soon enough I will be, waiting at the edge of the earth and on,
“The top of the river, walking steady and straight to you,
Unaware of the current sweeping you away,
Wouldn’t you like to be, at the mouth of the river,
Destined to bring us, face to face to face.”
>>>
SONG 2
Like Water over time, over rocks
Over lime over wood over you
Over and over again….
Like age, and the lines, and the gray
And the moods and the days
And Day after day after day…
There is a way, this works,
A way the world carves its niche in each of us,
A way we begin to see our place,
In the shapes that form, results of patience.
Infinite glory surfaces, us unable to discern,
Incapable of seeing the difference in the forms,
And fully devolved from dialect we yearn,
For peaceful anxieties which reshape and warn.
SWEET I.
My Sweet destination, my chariot, gilded and fine,
My intoxication, my desire,
My world swirled around a lightening bolt,
Fired and molded, a prayer, like a kiss blown.
My life, flashed in an instant, through a million,
Eternal struggles, and you by my side,
The hope of paradise, the fear of damnation,
No longer motivation for the will to be right.
Our hope, a peaceful existence,
The dream of maturity finally at the tip
The tongues of man sing ‘where we go
Alone and joined with parsnips and tulips,
Scouring the ground, approaching freedom,
Your head hung low, eyes lifted to mine,
Thick lips pulled closer to the ground…
“Allah’u’abha” beginning to sound.
Songs for the ages, we hold hands and pray
This, being the only way I have of knowing.
That, though, is instinctive and inside,
Your psyche, which glows and provides-
These following insights into the light:
Hope will exist as long as you and I do,
Within the context of the meaning of us.
And my future will in time intertwine with you.
Feathering the truth, slow and methodic
Looks, like we are guilty, when we are barely
Born. Bored, more likely than warm,
Smart more likely than strong.
I will learn to write to you, in verse,
Turning phrases in Farsi, lifetimes,
Followed by endless progressions,
Through our consort, and their prayers.
Stanza’s seem inadequate description
For figures who hold no form,
Like your mind, within my infatuation,
And being wrong instead of being warm.
Sweet II.
It’s been a while since I have found
This much ability to concentrate, focus
Surrounding and individual,
I’d resigned it to be perpetual,
My ability to forget; exceptional.
My ability to regret, diminishing.
I am enticed with the challenge,
Now at its outset seemingly noble-
Though, would I still feel this way
Were I, or were you not of this same Light?
Would I then be more infatuated-
Or less, somehow, transfixed-
The very foreignness,
Which I wish to assimilate,
And include in my life…
Next line, the same as its step
(Making you my wife)
And all of the asides that are included-
Trappings of a Bahá'í wedding?
Seeking council on how to approach-
Such divine ordinances, as putting my Faith-
Well into God’s hands, and trusting that I may,
Well not last the night, but I will be better off,
Even should my soul wing it’s flight,
And you should disavow any prior knowledge
Of my existence.
VERSE 11/20/01
Coming easier, as these pages progress, lines seem to flow more together as they once did. Still I am lost at song, as I’ve been hardly able to turn a lyric, and this Farsi by Osmosis, doesn’t seem to be rubbing off. (Though the festive nature of its tones catch my attention readily and repeatedly). I imagine by page 30, I will have regained my ability to author things, at least the way they were. How changed by the new views of the author though, I could not assume. Progress, like all things, requires above all patience. A gift, I have not often been given. My desire is to match the innate utterances of the greatest secularists, without the exertion of a single ounce of effort. This I know is fallacious, but still, I seem to strive, never along the path realizing the exertion I am exhibiting as I refine and reform the craft of English writing, raising the cry for my Farsi bride to come aide me in the creation of something approaching the mighty. (My own insignificance has yet to assert its affects on me).
A hundred lives I would offer up in his name,
Yet when I close my eyes, I see your face,
Tell me then where is the balance between his grace
And all my yesterdays floated on the wind of your breath…
I say: Answer not for these children
For we have only been, and ever will.
Children, all I’ve seen or wished, childish,
And somehow, I think I sense a jealous tinge.
Just enough to make things interesting for us,
And of course you fall your head (whispering something like shucks)
In a tongue of course, I barely comprehend,
But in your hand is the castle up on its head…
And heady and bold, I begin to unravel you,
Attendees involvement
Green Acre:
"أوه
حبّ، محبوبي"
And my life turns again,
Allah allows awkward somehow
To mature, and (what’s more)
To enter into covenant with our psyche.
Not until, in the context of prayer,
We can step back and see ourselves
See what we were really doing there…
Can we begin to be fair to the promise
Of peace, both in and out of our
Would be home.
You said be patient with you.
My sweet Annsa, I will wait…
I want to come home to you.
I know your eyes, flashing and fine,
Capture me, mid sentence in this line,
And uncover vast truths as of yet unrefined
(but you go back and underline)
No God is there save Thee, the Remover of Difficulties
And I cry-
Reunion,
My beloved seems so distant,
And I crossing vast rivers,
Flattening mountains,
Striking through wilderness,
Which the pioneers themselves,
Never have traversed…
You my beloved though,
I believe, also cutting through these
Trees, guided by a belief that eventually
We will meet somewhere in between
And be reunited by our mutual love
Of Bahá'u'lláh, may our every instant
Be a lifetime of martyrdom for His cause.
All that you say
Leads me to feel you don’t see
Me standing in front of you,
أوه
حبّ، أحبّك
And we begin to break these locks
Knowledge of all things serendipitous,
Synergism, and gnosis,
Passionate moments and trust.
جمالك playing off my own hopes,
Interwoven with patterns for alibis
When broken down, toppled-
Running fingers through the sand
(no doubt you know I’m looking
for your hand)
أتمنا. عاشق
أوه
محبوبي ،
I break apart a million shells,
Hoping to find you, alive, within, well
And I ask,
Have I said too much…
Patience, Detached…
How can I suffer detachment then
From you, when my own الإحساس
Tells me it is you that I belong to,
You where I live,
And cultivate,
And grow,
And see again
And pray
And know
And say,
All of these days could pass,
Accomplishments could wane,
(No one could read my play)
My verse could dry up,
My music die,
My hunger for learning break,
Sweat fall more than tears-
And senselessness, between attendances-
Breathlessness, between the senses…
But –
أوه حبّ، أحبّك
If you were there…
None of these things would be real…
I would see each morning,
Myself in your eyes,
Perfected, by that one other,
Who sees with all truth,
The perfections, nay the potentials
Inherent in الروح
The love inherent in the breath we breathe,
Into each other’s arms, and the sleep we need,
Into each other’s arms, and the moment we stepped
Into each others arms,
Knowing the love of God,
Expressing it through this,
أوه حبّ، محبوبي
Come love, step.
Into my arms.
AND THEN
The chariots broke off into balls,
Black plumes racing up in reunion,
The beloved one, sinking into her chair,
While the hero of our tale, was split open.
His heart, still beating plainly seen,
Easily identified, as it carried her name.
The path to the infinite, transcribed by this
Way in which with each beat, slowing
Spaces between growing,
The cry for her name, a jewel,
Carried His spirit away to the مملكة أبها
I love to hear her converse,
Her tongue hints at possibilities,
Which until now, I’d felt unable to express,
Lost in her addresses, of me, of her,
Friends and family,
This will be the gateway,
Here in these mountainous places,
Altitude gives way, dissipating
Fog and rain, and words and wisdom,
But all the same, all I see,
Is the sound which emanates from her lips
Nawze
And true.
Examination Of Beauty, Culmination of Light 1st Layer Intelligence Romance Spirituality Family Kinship Culture Resilience Dreaming 2nd Layer Brilliance Love Faith Family Empathy معلّمي Pragmatism Dreaming 3rd Layer Innate Knowledge Devotion Meditation Family/Motherhood Kindliness/Charity المطوّر,
المزارع Resolve Dreaming Passion, Source of Light
and Color
Oh My God, Let me find success, in singing her praise, let me
be true to your words, and become capable of detachment and passion on the
grounds of one utterance, Verily, in these words I mean no other cause but
worship, and the fulfillment of your unerring word. May you make me detached
from all things deemed unseemly by your eyes, and uttered unworthy by your
tongue. No God is there but Thee. The Inspirer, The Helper, The Wise.
Top
The Point
On the one hand,
Beginning this excursion from its formal stance
Being as we know the top of the stone,
Where all the other cuts are clearly visible, but
Reversed, and difficult to discern,
Would seem appropriate,
Were we only to be here to learn.
On the other hand,
starting this search from the passionate point,
The veritable pinnacle of adoration,
The point of the prism, the peak of the stone,
So often turned below, obscured by gold
Platinum, encased, while it is from here,
As the skilled jeweler knows,
That all light enters and flows, and so-
It is the birthing ring of passion-
Thus, would this be as appropriate a place,
To begin our journey, to somewhere find her-
Sitting in space, serenading the Blessed Beauty,
With her graceful incantations of prayers revealed
Specifically for her.
Shall we instead come in from the side?
So well crafted a stone, that each unique and
Captivating, the eyes remain transfixed,
The heart remains to comprehend the balance,
Each facet hold, with original quality, crafted
Surely by the magic of the mold, and techniques
Long since perfected by a single divine craftsman.
Then we must decide: Which side? Where to examine,
Innumerable perfections, soliloquies uttered by maidens
Each facet, each face, a separate lifetime, where I have-
Existed in a primordial form, waiting for the sculptor,
Carver of men to fashion for me a destiny, which would be
A fitting setting for this stone, and allow me to grow,
And only I would know the passion of the point, then…
Yes! Make me a setting for this stone,
Allow me to transform this weak base, banal
Form, a suffering platitude of grievous alloy
Let me find my full constitution, in her illumination,
Without a setting, without refinement, a stone is rock,
How then could this stone have made herself,
How could she have lifted herself out from the earth,
Splitting up أرض, as time passes, shaping herself,
Or,
Did her form grow naturally, throwing off sediment,
And there she was, in every rock, the potential,
But in her, realized, formed, and I only found.
Then make of me this setting, that I may find,
Utterance of the lines of my life, in the uplifting
Of hers.
Expression of the perfections of my composition
Enhanced through the function of holding her,
The dissipation of desire, the realization of peace,
The service, committed to the fire, kindled, here.
Alive, well, causing individuals to burn radiant,
Spontaneous, and in the midst, a jewel, multifaceted
And proud, comforted by the protection of a setting
Fitting to only one stone, joyously chanting incantations,
Singing her praises, even as it holds her secret, the passionate
Point, wherein, the focus of personal revelation, reunion
The beloved one, and she fills his dark corners with this light,
Forever eliminating such predispositions.
Ripped from the very constitution of the alloy,
Replaced only with the passion of the point,
The perfection of the stone, with all her facets,
Frightening in her beauty,
Illuminating in her deeds,
Enough to cause mountains to flatten,
And two to be locked for eons in a kiss.
This; the passion of equals,
Coming to one another, on the grounds
Of service, and mutual adoration,
That the two
Component parts, though the stone,
Infinitely more Beautiful, more captivating,
Still find an ultimate expression in their fusion.
And ultimate desire in the satisfaction of
The wearer of the ring.
Now, for these facets,
Which the whole of recorded words,
Could not contain or summarize the way,
This setting, humble, but filled with pride
Longing for its stone, useless without…
And the way she causes the bewilderment
Of the fibers of His essence.
Broken, melting for her Heat,
Longing for her light, illumined by her Hope.
I.
قمة
الحجارة.
Truly, truly, the light of the worlds,
Come and swirl, unknown to themselves
Unallowed to dwell, but in the heart,
Where all things honest must begin.
Alive and aligned, swirling in time,
Beckoning, calling, cries, listen-
The flows of the oceans collecting,
Crashing upon her shores, mighty, refined,
In this smile, moments in time,
Pass through this glass like so much light,
And even as I write, truth realigns
Herself with the night, and I set my sight
Ahead, in the night, the oceans suffice,
And the rocky shores will light,
And her lighthouse, will open its doors,
As the old man will soon begin to shout-
Nahze Nahze! Please, think and pray-
أوه محبوبي , إسمع حبّي
Adored One! Know me, as reflection,
Shape me as light, and allow me, direction
Certainly, her beauty has beaten ships against-
Rocks, and coasts, deemed imperfect at her side,
Captains, gladly accepting death as a gift,
From a life without her, but with such a constant sense,
Alive, and well, teeming with experiences,
Exceptions to forms, eyes which light the way
For ferries pulling farther out on her stream,
Guided by her light, and incubated by جمالها-
Enough! The pain of separation from her-
Like a lifetime at sea, only dreaming,
Knowing no chance of reunion towards her heart,
Only breaking the light in the reflection of her form,
Not yet borne, her angel comes into my chamber,
Speaking, no, whispering, allows me a key to find her,
But with the wind, the light begins to shatter,
And I am lost in between two worlds, confused, لوحده
How could I speak a praise of a beauty,
When her actual form alone grows faint at the opportunity
How then could I praise an artist who in one stroke
Has successfully superceded all of the masters before
Oh Collector of Praises, Oh Collector of Light
أوه جامع الثناء , Will you ever hear mine,
أوه جامع الضوء , Will you pierce this shade
أوه جامع الثناء , this must pale to what you’ve heard
أوه جامع الضوء, my path towards you, endless and bare.
II.
الطبقة الأولى
الإستخبارات
Like she doesn’t even try.
I realize at this moment, that,
This very undertaking will seem to her
Absurd, wrong, damning, demeaning.
That I would shower these praises
On محبوبي , would be to give her clout,
To raise her up, in comparison to the Most Well Loved.
By the very love which causes me to pen these words!
I see in her a timeless beauty, formed each time,
When she parts her lips to speak, and such fine
Words flow, and mingle with the cosmos, as I try,
Struggle, just to not veer off the road,
Like she doesn’t even know, her brilliance,
Innate borne, vested with the power of being,
Thriving, from the cradle of the Faith,
Learning in a day, what has taken me a lifetime.
And teaching. God, how I wish to be worthy-
To teach with her, by her side, near her door,
Allowed to enter into her company, her trust,
Allowed to see her, through this daunting forest.
When I walk with her, roses wilt in embarrassment
Knowing full well their unworthiness in her wake,
And yet still they shine on in bewildered admiration,
Hoping their lives may soon be clipped for her sake-
But I faint, it is her eloquent sense of “be” the way she thinks,
Her habits of studiousness and promotion of learning,
The words she drinks, letting their taste envelop her psyche
Knowledge of all sciences and arts, and life and God-
It is a compulsion for her, a natural instinct to learn,
For me to see, this way, and to see my Father in her eyes.
No, now I faint, hoping that I may be clipped for her sake-
I must remain, in strict admiration, respectful admonition-
معلّمي , I see a lifetime ahead where we share this need,
Learning from each other, teaching the blind to see-
Please معلّمي a moment is my lifetime, and all I can give,
To You, for you, a single, simple unworthy gift.
Breaths pause, and in the spaces in between
(where we once could see our breath) now we see,
alive and well, the word of the learned, beating,
up against the ears of the faitful, daunted, unbroken,
Her words, as they come, are enough to pierce this حجاب
Hardened wall, broken from ignorance, only now patched-
By her clay, her words, her ways of reassuring the dead,
Breathing in infusion, new life, my life, محبوبي –
Like she doesn’t even know her essence; Truth.
Like she doesn’t even see her innovation,
Or how it overtakes my inanition, my lethargic youth,
Backbreaking, un-maintained, waiting, restrained
Like she doesn’t even know, through her intelligence,
My eyes are made seeing, my heart, brought to love,
My words, caused to flow forward naturally, as if,
No where else in my life were real, until I was by her side.
الرومانسية
(A kiss?) قبلة؟ Would be too much to ask,
أنا آسف , but I don’t even think I could bare.
The weight of a thousand kisses, which,
Would exist in the breath, and the space of ها الواحد
(A touch?) لمس؟ would I be suddenly surrendered.
I am sorry, but I would entirely evaporate, into her air,
Cataclysmically unbalanced, by the weight of her flesh,
On my skin, even were we only to touch hands.
(A hug?) حضنة؟ a moment closer to her, than anything else,
And still I know it would be the source of my dissipation-
Feigning out into the atmosphere, singing her praise on my way,
Suddenly, charismatically and fully diffused, she says: " أنا ضمنك!"
And I reply: “I would be within you too” were it not destructive-
Shhh, Let this moment carry us, think not of then, or where we must
Be, in order to secure the life of the promises we made,
And you, feigning away, dreaming of the difficulties of trust
Where in this Western orb, could I find a passion similar
Where could I set my heart afire, in the name of your warmth-
Where could I find my life, fulfilled, and fulfilling my goals.
محبوبي a thousand more dreams, nights, things, all I want-
Were you to tell me tomorrow: “Go” surely I would, but where.
How could such an edict cause anything else but diminution
Crippling and severe, were it your will I would, but there-
I would stay, broken and gray, alone, and wasted in the stratums
Of your love. Come face me, قبلة and we are swept away-
May I be the only moment that passes, having this experience,
May I be the only man who achieves this coveted balance,
Between the night and my beloved, I turn to face her wind.
الروحانية
Eyes closed, somewhere, deep in prayer, الله أبها
Meditative, along sweet lines of reverence, الله أبها
Hands clasped, caught in whistling wind, forgotten
God alone is The Sufficer, the Beloved, the Almighty
Her lips move, not even a whisper, الله أبها
Eyes dashing back and forth behind clasped eyelids
Gracious God! Answering her prayer, الله أبها
God alone is The Healer, The Help in Peril, The Guide
Vocal cords vibrate, unleashing tempestuous cries
First seen, then allayed, answering: الله أبها
Again within the inner chamber, whispering, الله أبها
Unshaken by the woven hues of chanted prayer
Moved to speak by forks within her soul-
Unable to breathe but to utter: الله أبها
Again renowned, again endowed, الله أبها
Surely he will take her by the hand and guide her.
Thoughts focused, blessed spot of praise, الله أبها
Unaware of surrounding thoughts and prayers-
Moved to tears by the will to Live His life
Unaware, through humility how far she is.
The Most Great Name fails to be fair on this Page,
And the Most Great God, recognizing her call, الله أبها
And the words: لا الله يَجِدُ لَكنَّك، المسامح، العطوفون
No God is there but Thee, the Forgiver, the Compassionate.
It is not that she worships, but how she says: الله أبها
The knowledge that she possesses, which I’ve worked for,
She comes to by way of her responding to the command “Be”
And she was, and she is, and a thousand lifetimes could never suffice.
Truly, his craftsmanship is unparalleled: الله أبها
Again and again, his perfections are seen manifest-
And in deeds we pray, her eyes stay closed, الله أبها
Answering the call, whispered to her, الله أبها, الله أبها
And again I am awestruck by her abilities: الله أبها
And again I hear my own prayer from her lips
And again I am taken forward from this instant,
Allowed only one sight, as to the way things could have been.
Why have I stopped here, watching her breathe الله أبها
Why do I not see the bewilderment, which I have perceived?
I have believed in this day, and yet still in the seconds which stop-
I see a more perfect future in her each recitation of: الله أبها, الله أبها
العائلة
It is in the way she speaks to her parents,
The unerring signs of respect and deep admiration,
The way she wishes for their happiness first,
And allows her own to be as a channel of them.
It is in the way she speaks, concerned, telephone-
Though I can’t even comprehend the bulk of her words,
Her spirit, her uplifting الروح , with little room to err.
And little room is left for admiration, in the face of its rewards.
I glean from these experiences her ability to love, unconditional.
Her Life, an iteration of ineffable affection, (and I trivial)
Where then could I make the change, from brother to beau?
That I may more fully know this love, which lights my soul.
Madre, she speaks, as one infinitely intertwined, with lifetime-
Families tracing back generations, borne anew only past 100 years.
And her eyes light up when she mentions her Father, spirit matched
Within her own, wound up for eons, never set, never attacked.
The cradle of her faith, she can trace, herself back to its beginning.
Along these chartered lines, broken and blind, allowed to look behind,
To the Year 9, when all things became as one, and there were new eyes,
New ears, and a new line, to pass through years, and come to time-
And I to come to terms, that this whole line, might end here,
Each passing stanza, extolling the joy of her kindred, and
I may never enter into this line, join this fold, become near,
But still this prayer, detachment, I erred, I lived and I fell…
I hope her parents are doing well, her appreciation enhances my own,
And how could I not want to know of them, when they seem so great,
Their lives, so bold, beautiful, strong, devoted, alive.
My own moments, barely a heartbeat in a moment in their lives.
Can I show as much devotion to her as they have to one another,
Can I allow God to be as much a place in that home, as have they-
Can I make my case for allowances, to vast and great to say-
Can I show forth such adoration to show her my mutual love.
القرابة
Oh love my love, my sweet vested muse, causing me to speak
To fight eloquence at every bend, and spin words to meet,
Multi-syllabic passages, offered to her in the name of “We”
Of course there is no we, but in her eyes, the love of her friends
I lay down my life towards her love, and see in her, a true friend,
Begins to be sent, forward, thrusting out of her eyes glorious and kind.
Illumined, blinded by the light, turning towards the concourse on High
And seeing from this the beginning routed in her friends and lovers.
I could easily chant a million lines, broken by wind, difficult to find,
Uneasy truths which we begin to speak in verse, intravenously opined,
Actively asserted, strengths formed in the bond that begin with friends,
An honest admirable allocation of time, and love and hope is spent
Refining this beloved one, towards the path of greater adoration,
Easy justification discovered in the gateway of the divines, aligned,
With paradise, walking forth, hand in hand, chanting, Friend! صديقي
Allow me then to place my hand forth in yours, in kinship, in peace-
That we may at once be lifted from the veils of this stone, towards the threshold,
Of divinity and admiration, of true adherence and affiliation, or so I’m told,
This is the path towards true happiness, (were we only the wise, only the wise)
And to be able to lift up from these rocks, the living, the best of our lives.
She would lay down her life for any one of them, should so doing lead-
The hands of her divine, illuminated friends to come closer to seeing,
The capture of the hands, beneath these banners, beneath these words-
The One, The Almighty, They would be alive, and she would flame up-
Into the name of “No God is There But God” her magnificence is without
Doubt, equal, argument, and finessed will, deep into the whole of creation,
She would suffer, in the name of kinship, atrocities of character and limitation,
All the while walking towards her friends, outstretched and offering aid.
Small though she is in this world of vastness and the sublime truth waiting,
Humble though she is, in the place of selfishness and lives being taken,
She shows herself selfless, eliminated from vice, and struggling (for right?)
Or righteous deeds, behavior and thought, within her friends, made-
She comes forth in the utmost of kindliness, and shows her bare palms-
Gasping I close her hands around all I can offer, which seems to barely fill
One hand, and the other, she closes on her own, gracious of my gift, though
Meager and wasteful it is, still she smiles and sits and accepts this will.
Culture
الثقافة
أميرتي , ملكتي , ملاكي , حلمي
(my princess, my Queen, my Angel, my Dream)
The master says that in the future such words will be profanity,
Not: أميرة not:ملكة not: ملاك or حلم -
It is, but the possessive, “My,” will soon be the eliminate.
How could I posses, or claim possession of such a jewel.
That I could only but hope for a few moments, would be خطأ
And what not, that I would give all these moments for that instant-
Your lips move, it seems a mile a minute, and I give pause-
Dreams of places I have never been surface and begin to teach me-
Alive, Arisen, begin to be given the path to greater vision, within,
The confines of the world I have known, inwards you walk, with-
All the lifetimes, of which maybe even you are not yet fully aware.
I call you Love! By my very act of being, I wish to know you more intimate,
And here and alone, somehow, the room is filled with tone-
Of mystical pasts, and worlds long since laid to rest by hands,
Who were far to eager to bury their own, even by the words of Christ.
I’ve heard your song, deep from the throat, long vowels, ancient sound,
Which causes a bestirred lifetime to pass, without so much as a word,
I’ve seen your sword, unsheathed from your tongue, aimed at praise,
And trustworthiness, which you have not yet learned, but I will plead…
Lead, and I will follow, teach and I will learn, imbue me, and I will live-
Your life, and mine, dotted with peace, love admiration, and lines,
Of triumphant lives, inundated into a new refinement and beauty,
Hold fast to the knowledge that I will never hurt you, ملاكي