Khalid Mukhtar

Word, like wind, cuts through you / Withers all but true you

Khalid Mukhtar

The Sands, The Trees, The Gentle Breeze

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(Narrator)
Upon a little patch of earth
Beside the Masjid an-Nabi
There blew a warm and gentle breeze
Upon the sands, and date palm trees.

(Tree 1)
It was just yesterday that he
Reclined on me so peacefully.
I long to feel his blessed touch
Againt my trunk; I miss that much.

(Tree 2)
I understand your pain, my friend,
For I remember that day when
He played with his little Hussain
Despite the softly falling rain;

Around and round me did he run
So playfully with Ali’s son,
I hoped they would not leave my side,
But then they did, and how I cried.

(Tree 1)
Oh yes, indeed. I do recall
That day when all that rain did fall.

(The Earth)
I long for his mubarak feet
To walk upon my every street;
I love him and his every trace
In me and in my every space.

(The Wind)
And when he speaks or breathes a word,
It is the sweetest thing you heard;
I carry all his blessed speech
To everyone within my reach.

(Tree 1, whispering)
Quiet! Here he comes again.

(Tree 2, whispering)
SubhanAllah.

(The Earth, whispering)
AlhamdulilLah.

(The Wind, whispering)
Allahu Akbar.

(Narrator)
And so they rustled, shifted, blew
Until the Prophet was with them.

(Tree 1, Tree 2, The Earth, The Wind, all say together)
SallAllahu ‘alaa Muhammad
SallAllahu ‘alayhi wa sallam.

SallAllahu ‘alaa Muhammad
SallAllahu ‘alayhi wa sallam.

SallAllahu ‘alaa Muhammad
SallAllahu ‘alayhi wa sallam.

(End.)

I Don’t Care

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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 loud confirmation that you do not care.

Ode On Short Rib Ragù

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Note to Ode Enthusiasts: This is 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 

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

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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

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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

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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.

Self-righteously Unhypocritical

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“That’s just how I feel, Mom. I can’t lie, I’m not a hypocrite.”

It was a very matter-of-fact statement, made in Aisle 5 at the grocery store somewhere between the baked beans and tomato paste. The speaker was a girl, probably thirteen, maybe fourteen years of age. Her mother instantly disconnected from her mentally, and the girl reciprocated. As they ambled down the aisle filling their cart, I could sense they were in their separate worlds. And pretty soon, I was in mine.

As a father of four, I fully expect to suffer that sort of rejoinder in the coming years. But what got me writing this article was the confidence and self-assurance with which we, adults and children alike, see ourselves above being hypocrites. We are quite vocal about not being hypocrites, are we not?

At first blush, that seems quite honorable. In fact, let me be clear. That is honorable. No one should want to be a hypocrite. Nothing good about being hypocritical. Hypocrisy is a universally despicable attribute, best not to have applied to yourself. But we know the world has its share of hypocrites. The trouble is we also seem to know we’re never among them.

So, okay…what on earth am I trying to say here?

Let’s look back a thousand years in time, at giants of men and women, people of substance, their bodies and souls flushed with a maturity that saw them shoulder responsibility the likes of which very few adults in today’s world can even relate to. I will consider only one example.

Umar. May God be pleased with him.

Umar the son of Al-Khattab was the second of the four rightly guided Caliphs, succeeding Abu Bakr. Let’s go back to a time before either of their Caliphates.

There was a time in Medina when the Messenger of God (God send His prayers upon him, and His blessings and peace) once enjoined upon a trusted companion, a man by the name of Hudhayfah, the confidential task of mentally recording a list of a dozen or so names of men who the prophet himself had categorized as hypocrites. These men were not to be called out or exposed on account of this knowledge, and Hudhayfah (God be pleased with him) was only to carry with him the knowledge of their names. The prophet had asked him not to disclose the names on that list to anyone. The men comprising the list were to be afforded the status of Muslims.

When Umar learned of Hudhayfah’s knowledge, he approached him and adjured him by God to inform him if he himself was among those named. Hudhayfah was torn between his calling to keep the list confidential and Umar’s unrelenting insistence. He finally informed Umar that he was not of the hypocrites, and then pressed Umar not to ask him again.

That’s right. Umar wanted to know if he was among the hypocrites.

Umar, of whom the Messenger (God be pleased with him) is reported to have said: When Umar walks down a path, the devil chooses to walk down a different path.

Umar, of whom the Messenger is reported to have said: If there were to be a prophet after me, it would be Umar.

And Umar was concerned that he may be counted among a dozen hypocrites, that too of the worst order of hypocrisy imaginable.

You know what really made Umar (God be pleased with him) NOT a hypocrite? I think it had much to do with the fact that he did not see himself immune to it. It does not take a genius to know the nature of hypocrisy. It is a subtle beast that creeps up on you. It finds you justifying your thinking and actions fully and logically (and scientifically, even). It is a little bit like madness in that the mad one is sure of his sanity, not doubting it for one moment. It is quite unlike madness in that hypocrisy must be satisfied and indulged for it to grow, and satisfy you back.

I am not saying that everyone who says they are not a hypocrite must be one. No. God forbid. All I am saying is that rather than thinking of ourselves as immune to it, we may be better off following the example of Umar and checking in on ourselves from time to time, entertaining the possibility that we just may be acting hypocritical. Entertaining that possibility may well be the weakest form of inoculation to protect against that disease of the heart.

I once heard Shaykh Amin Kholwadia say these words, and he is often heard repeating the idea many different ways:

As soon as you feel good about yourself, know that the devil has got you, because he is made from fire and he understands the nafs better than you.

That.

I wrote this some years ago, seems vaguely relevant.

Pleas

Clear As Fog

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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.

Walking

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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

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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 'gainst the cliffs
Of my transgression
Mixing in
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
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