Tuesday, October 21, 2014

Mattress Crucifixion

I care excessively. I care for meanings behind slight expressions, I care about language and how the words seem to recall the taste of sweet bakhlava as it melts on the core of my tongue; ever meticulous of the ratio of vowels to consonants; ever cautious of eyes that ravage hungrily in search of desire. I care about hinges of books and offer compensation to accidental paper tears. I care about the golden hue of sunsets dancing on glass window panes, the way it prods the edges of my lips into a smile on my way home. Home-— I care about home, and family, of relatives I've met only on the occasion of travels and whom after promising to keep in contact, I've let down. I care about strays and tightly chained horses, of squirrels that go days unfed, of people whom my short memory has wistfully forgotten. Of this, and so much more.

And so, I go to sleep every night, surrendered, my arms pinned by my sides, crucified on the cross of my mattress, vaguely aware that my caring has always been internal. 

My inevitable death will have the mantra of "overburdened" written on my gravestone; told to the nosy neighbors who's only ideal is knowing, sung to children I never bore. A caution; a reprimand to those who play on the brink of lending a hand, or turning a blind eye.


Saturday, October 4, 2014

Woe Is Me

Dear, dear self,

I am well aware of the comfort of your current state this well into the night. But, allow me to write in this moonlight before it shifts. I have been burdened. And to sleep upon the plush of quilted pillows, wrapped in silk and cotton, when I, your heart am here, wailing in agony, silently thumping against your chest, in desperate plea of your arousal. Self, do you not deem this an injustice?

My strings have gone stale and the specks on me have darkened and dimmed my sight. I pine for mirages, so seemingly short in hopes, an arms-length away..

Then, again, when one lusts for the farthest of galaxies and falls upon the divinest star closest to earth, his heart is nothing but a carcass, a shattered shard of living room wall art. Nothing, but crumbled and defeated.

I desire nothing but the wetness of your tongue with His name. Nothing but, that your eyes, had they glanced upwards to marvel in the lowest of the seven skies, except that they return thankful in His provision. Had you turned the knob of any door, clasped the handle of any gate, would you remember to proceed in His name?

Self, I implore your mercy. I am stricken with self-pity, that I, your heart cannot escape the bounds that have come to be your ribs and my prison.

I love you very much so, yet my fear for you on the Day when I speak against you equates, if not subdues,  my endearment for you, oh, my self.

My Lord! Woe to me!
Woe is me.

Friday, October 3, 2014

July's Tempest

I'd been acquainted with a lovely girl, whose eyes served as the means of replenishment for every man who was stricken with the worst of God's thirst. Kneeling, where we'd met, I held my palms out for her tears. For I, was a woman, in urgent need of water.

Every tale of woe is best accompanied by July's tempest. Amid it all, on the steps of the shelter, we remained, filling the hollows of our hearts, and innards of voids we knew not about.

Alas, desiring the warmth of the furnace, I rose. Immediately I was brought to halt by a hand over mine and a voice nearest to my ear, "an angel sent from above, you are."

"Oh, dear. I am most certain, had you been in the soles of these shoes I bear, you would have acted in a manner far more noble than I."

"No one has ever held me like you have. In your absence, I fear my flesh will recognize the skin it embodies no longer. I am in despair and I know not where I will be in state and mind after your departure."

A glance at the light-streaming corridor and another in the eyes of the grief-stricken damsel. And then, "Do you wish for me to stay?"

She cast away her tears, and faced the direction in which I stood holding the hem of my dress above the point of my ankles, so as for it not to be drenched in rainwater. She cast away her tears and faced me with a stony countenance. "I wish not to burden you."

"Then burden me not."

Even now, the wind whistles her name. To drive me beyond sanity, or to taunt, I know not. I know not of her name, nor the being existing behind the title I obligingly carry.

Each cockcrow since, I have searched all but every horizon the sun ascends from. And how mystical is the work of God that my fate, presumingly, lies when rays shine forth from the West.

Friday, July 25, 2014

27th Night of Ramadan

To kneel in submission until your knees grow a pair of lips and plead forgiveness. To expand the length of your arms in hopes that your fingertips will caress the iron gates of the seventh heaven. Or until the sky descends, bashful in your self-pity, hospitable to your desolation. If the same rain that brings to life the dead, soils your palms, and souls your heart, know the lightening strikes in rejoice to your being forgiven.

It's the 27th night of Ramadan, and every other drop of rain may very well seal the doorway of hellfire for the one who's face is salt, and eyes is hallow of sincerity, of love, or of guilt.

I pray we receive our books in our right hands. Ameen.

Tuesday, July 22, 2014

Love Leads to Hell

And when his Lord asked him of his prayer he said: "If my feet were anchored to the earth, and puss leaked from beneath my nails, I would have not minded had I been standing with a heart that was sound to You, O My Lord!"

Then his Lord asked him, even though his awareness encompassed the entirety of creation, "where was your heart other than with Me?"

He cowered with resignation then, realizing his justification in life was not exemplifiable with God. They always said love was an excuse to every imaginable flaw.

"I loved her. Now take me to hell."

Telepathy and Saints

Have you ever thought someone was having a telepathic conversation with you? Speaking just in minds and laughing over transmitted memories? Get this. I was gifted a book by a friend overseas, who's title I haven't revealed since, and whilst I read I fell utterly in love with a character that I sensed was alive, somewhere. At times, I would read a sentence and complete the next without even reading it. I gaped for days on end at how beautifully I connected my inner most self with this poor, but spiritual soul named Shaykh Ali. In conversations, I would often quote him and when asked who he was, I fell silent. How could a figment of one's imagination be anything but?

Months later, I came upon an article about telepathy and in it, I found Shaykh Ali from the book, in the form of a person who lived in the time of Sayyidina Muhammad sallallahu alayhi wasallam. His name was Uwais Al-Qarni. 

Rasulullah sallallahu alayhi wasallam in a hadith al Qudsi, recorded by Abu Hurayra said:
"Allah subhanahu wa ta'ala, loves of His creation the God-fearing, the pure in the heart, those who are hidden, and those who are innocent, whose face is dusty, whose hair is unkempt, whose stomach is empty, and who, if he asks permission to enter to the rulers, is not granted it, and if he were to ask for a gentle lady in marriage, he would be refused, and when he leaves the world it does not miss him, and if he goes out, his going out is not noticed, and if he falls sick, he is not attended to, and if he dies, he is not accompanied to his grave."

The sahabah, in awe, inquired: "O Messenger of Allah! How can we find such a person?"

"Uwais Al-Qarni," his blessed lips replied. 

Eager to know of this person, for his regard in the eyes of the most noble man of mankind was indeed high, they asked, "and who is this Uwais Al-Qarni?"

"He is dark skinned, wide shouldered, and of average height. His complexion is close to the color of earth. His beard touches his chest. His eyes are always looking downwards to the place of prostration, and his right hand is on his left hand. He weeps about himself with such a flow of tears that his lips are swollen. He wears a woolen garment and is known to the people of the heavens. If he makes a promise in the Name of Allah, he keeps it. Under his left shoulder there is a white spot. When the Day of Resurrection comes and it is announced to the slaves, “Enter the Garden,” it will be said to Uwais, ‘Stop and intercede.’ Allah, subhanahu wa ta'ala, will then forgive them to the same number as are the people of Rabi’a and Mudhar. So, O Umar and O Ali, if you can find him, ask him to intercede for you. Then Allah will forgive you."

Night became day, and day turned to night, ten years passed, and they searched for him, without ever coming upon him. The same year, Umar bin Al-Khattab passed away, he climbed the mountain overlooking Makkah and hollered, "O people of people of Yemen! Is there anyone up there with the name of Uwais!"

An elderly man rose, and called back, "We do not know who this Uwais that you inquire about is, but my brother’s son is called Uwais. He is too unimportant to be asked about, and too poor and submissive that he should be raised up to your level. He is our camel-herder, and he has no worth amongst our people."

Umar repeated his question, to which the old man replied, confused at how such a lowly man could ever be sought out by the Ameer al Mui'mineen, "Why do you ask about him, ya Ameer al Mui'mineen, for by Allah there is not one of us who is more foolish and more needy than he."

Umar wept at his ignorance and recalled the hadith al Qudsi from his sallallahu alayhi wasallam's truthful lips, before he passed away sallallahu alayhi wasallam. 

"On the Mount of ‘Arafat," the old man said dismissively.

Umar and Ali, then quickly went to Mount ‘Arafat, where they found a man praying under a tree, with camel grazing around him. "As`slamu Ạleykum," they called out.

The man hastened to finish his prayer and then responded, "Wạ'leykum As`slam."

"Who are you?" Umar and Ali asked.

"A herdsman of camels and a hired workman for a tribe," he replied matter of factly, as if the position had been chosen by none other than Allah.

Unsatisfied, they said, "we do not ask about your occupation, but what is your name?"

"Abdullah."

"Every being upon the heavens and the earth are the slaves of Allah! What is the name your mother named you?"

"What do you want from me, you two?"

"The messenger of Allah once spoke to us about a Uwais Al-Qarni, his description as far as we can see fits your characteristics. Show us if you have the white mark beneath your shoulder, if you bear it, it is certainly you whom we have been searching for!"

Uwais uncovered the woolen cloth from his shoulder, and there, in all it's glory, lay the white mark Rasulullah sallallahu alayhi wasallam described. Umar and Ali were rejoiced, and they hugged, kissed and embraced him, saying, "We declare that you are Uwais Al-Qarani! So ask for forgiveness for us and May Allah forgive you!"

His answer, may the Lord have mercy on his soul, is as blessed as he, himself. He says, "I cannot even forgive myself, nor one of Adam’s children. But there are on land and in the seas believing men and women, Muslim men and women, whose invocations to Allah are answered. Go and seek them."

Then, he continued, "O you two, you know about me and I know about my state, but who are you?"

Ali gestured to Umar, "this is Ameer al Mui'mineen, and I am Ali ibn Abu Talib."

In a matter of moments, they were acquainted and Umar bin Al Khattab in departure said, "Your place is here until I return to Madinah, and may Allah have mercy upon you. Then, I will bring you help from my provision and some of my clothes. This has been the meeting place between you and me."

To which he replied, "Ya Ameer al Mui'mineen, there will be no other meeting place, in the knowledge of Allah, between you and me, but this one. So tell me, what should I do with your provision, and what should I do with your clothes? Do you not see that I am wearing a woolen gown and a woolen wrapper, so when do you see me tearing them? Or do you see that my sandals are worn out and torn? When do you see me out wearing them? Between your hand and mine there is a higher barrier which cannot be crossed by a weighty person. So leave these things, and Allah will have mercy upon you.”

Umar, furious with himself, and guilt struck, thrust his stick into the Earth and shouted, "O would that Umar had not been born by his mother, and that she had been sterile!"

Umar and Ali then returned to Madinah and Uwais returned to his tribe with the camels he had herded. Soon thereafter, Uwais decided to leave his occupation as a herdsman and go to Kufah. When Umar heard of his plans, he offered to write a letter to Kufah's governor for him, and Uwais declined saying, "I would rather be with the people who are near to my heart."

And he was indeed, with those near to his heart, until Allah subhanahu wa ta'ala decided to take him back to Himself.

Flipping pages of history in reverse, Rasulullah sallallahu alayhi wasallam once said, after being asked if he had ever met this Uwais Al-Qarni he speaks so fondly about, "No, he never watched me physically, but spiritually, he met me."

Similarly, Uwais said, "I didn’t see the Prophet physically, but in every moment, of every day, I was with him during his life."

In one occasion, he sallallahu alayhi wasallam said, "I feel the breath of my friend from the land of Yemen."

And I conclude to say I, too, feel the breath of my friend, Shaykh Ali, who I am yet to meet. 

Thursday, June 5, 2014

Unearthly Sensation

I want to mold in the carpet of God's house in it's divine vacancy
I want to awaken when sleep is most encompassing
I want to converse with a deity of sublime presence
I want Him to assure me with analogies—
that I will be as Abraham was to Him

Here..

I want to scream Saba´ El Kheyr and have angels streaming light answer the hollow of my echo
I want to line my bracelets and make them holy between the beading of my thumb and palm
I want to twist the band of my ring and make dawāf in it's equivilance
I want to recite until my throat goes raw and sleep with a quivering chest as a lullaby
I want to prance around and apologize when I step on the old woman who passed away when she was closest to her Lord