This older post seems relevant during these days of Aashoorah marking the liberation of the Children of Israel from the oppression of a tyrant king.
https://khamuk.com/2014/04/rabb.html
Articles
Classical Poetry Lives
I was at the Rivulets 2015 Launch event earlier this afternoon. The Chicago Tribune covered it:
http://www.chicagotribune.com/suburbs/naperville-sun/community/chi-ugc-article-naperville-writers-group-rivulets-27-launch-2015-10-01-story.html
I was asked to recite one of my submissions – On Riverside Walks, and that I did.
I also learned I was one of the four runners-up to the Founder’s Prize for Poetry for my submission, On Forgetting To Remember. And that was cool.
Given the above were both sonnets, I am happy to say <insert post title here>.
A good day overall.
Self-righteously Unhypocritical
“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.
Bartering Our Souls For “Peace” – Srebenica Twenty Years On
As we mark twenty years since the brutal killings in a Bosnian town of over 8,000 Muslim boys and men ranging from ages 12 to 77, we are faced with emerging evidence bringing into focus the unfortunate role of the free world in the commission of what has been called the “worst massacre on European soil since the Third Reich”. Details around how a safe area came to be presented to the Serb death-squads are chilling, no doubt.
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| Photo courtesy guardian.co.uk: man praying at the gravesites of Srebenica |
But there is something even more disturbing than the actual genocide itself. This was clearly not the first time an act of ethnic cleansing had shocked the world. If we restrict ourselves to a simple game of numbers, the killing of 8,000 boys and men is a drop in the ocean of genocide that the twentieth century alone has seen. (Wikipedia List of genocides by death toll.) No, the numbers are not interesting. But the politics is.
It is one thing that the Serbian killing machine had overrun Srebenica, and the likes of Mladic had personally overseen the separation of boys as young as twelve and their fathers and grandfathers from their mothers, sisters, daughters and wives. While the women and girls were sent off to “Muslim territory”, a collective term for the horrors that awaited them as they were delivered to their new homes, the boys and their fathers and their grandfathers were transported to the lush fields around the town and cut down by soldiers, men who were beginning to reel under the fatigue of playing executioners.
Killing is hard work, even with guns. To send metal flying at over twice the speed of sound, tearing open the chests and heads of twelve and thirteen year-old boys can take a toll on the sickest of hearts.So, yes, that is all one thing.
But it is another thing for a massacre on a scale of this magnitude to not just occur, but flourish on the watch of a group that was instituted for the very purpose of preventing such oppression, an institution called the United Nations that is held as the positive culmination of the great lessons learned from World War II. Sure, there were hostages – 30 soldiers of a Dutch contingent – whose lives were threatened if Srebenica wasn’t handed over quietly. But now we read of this:
According to declassified US cables details of the killings reached western intelligence and decision makers soon after they began on 13 July; CIA operatives watched almost “live” at a satellite post in Vienna. From that day, spy planes caught what was happening. “Standing men held by armed guard. Later pictures show them lying in the fields, dead,” according to one cable.
A senior state department official insists: “All US partners were immediately informed.” Yet the slaughter was allowed to run its course, no attempt made to deter the killers, or to locate the men and boys, let alone rescue them.
The next day, 14 July, the UN security council said it feared “grave mistreatment and killing of innocent civilians”; it said it had received “reports that 4,000 men and boys have gone missing”. But the diplomats continued business as usual.
…
…
Pauline Neville-Jones, then political director at the British Foreign Office, argued as late as 2009: “It still remains to be established whether the Serbs had a long-range intention to do just that [massacre men and boys]. Serb forces engaged in an ethnic cleansing campaign to rid Srebrenica of its Muslims [which] eventually became genocide when the decision was made to separate men targeted for extinction.”
Jean-Claude Mallet, the director of strategy at the French defence ministry, says in an interview: “I had no illusion that atrocities would be committed. We had reported that. But never such as the ones that occurred.”
The International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia rejects these views, ruling that the killings were premeditated well in advance. In the conviction of the Bosnian Serb general Radislav Krstic for aiding and abetting genocide at Srebrenica, the court ruled: “Without detailed planning, it would have been impossible to kill so many people in such a systematic manner in such a short time, between 13 July and 17 July.”
The International Court of Justice would rule in 2007: “It must have been clear that there was a serious risk of genocide in Srebrenica.”
France’s foreign minister at the time, Alain Juppé, says in an interview: “We all knew the men would be annihilated, or at least that the Serbs were not sparing the lives of prisoners”.
Source: http://www.theguardian.com/world/2015/jul/04/how-britain-and-us-abandoned-srebrenica-massacre-1995
And this:
But a new investigation of the mass of evidence documenting the siege suggests much wider involvement in the events leading to the fall of Srebrenica. Declassified cables, exclusive interviews and testimony to the tribunal show that the British, American and French governments accepted – and sometimes argued – that Srebrenica and two other UN-protected safe areas were “untenable” long before Mladic took the town, and were ready to cede Srebrenica to the Serbs in pursuit of a map acceptable to the Serbian president, Slobodan Miloševic, for peace at any price.
But as they considered granting Srebrenica to the Serbs, western powers were also aware, or should have been, of the Bosnian Serb military “Directive 7” ordering the “permanent removal” of Bosnian Muslims from the safe areas. They also knew Mladic had told the Bosnian Serb assembly, “My concern is to have them vanish completely”, and that Karadžic pledged “blood up to the knees” if his army took Srebrenica.
Robert Frasure, a US diplomat working as an international representative, reported to Washington that Miloševic would not accept a peace map unless the safe areas were ceded to the Serbs. His boss, Anthony Lake, the US national security adviser, favoured a revised map that ceded Srebrenica, and the US policy-making Principals Committee urged that UN troops “pull back from vulnerable positions” – ergo, the safe areas.
France and Britain agreed, with UK defence secretary Sir Malcolm Rifkind arguing that the safe areas were “untenable”, as defended in 1995. As Mladic’s troops advanced on Srebrenica, the west failed to heed warnings of the town’s imminent fall. Once it had, says General Van der Wind of the Dutch defence ministry, in an exclusive interview with the Observer, the UN provided 30,000 litres of petrol, used by the Serbs to drive their quarry to the killing fields and plough their bodies into mass graves.
As the killing hit full throttle, top western negotiators met Mladic and Miloševic but did not raise the issue of mass murder, even though unclassified US cables show that the CIA was watching the killing fields almost “live” from satellite planes.
The shocking findings of high-level willingness in London, Washington and Paris to cede Srebrenica were collated over 15 years by Florence Hartmann, a former Le Monde correspondent, for a book, The Srebrenica Affair: The Blood of Realpolitik. Hartmann worked as a spokeswoman for the prosecutor at the international criminal tribunal for the former Yugoslavia between 2000 and 2006.
Source: http://www.theguardian.com/world/2015/jul/04/west-true-role-in-srebrenica-massacre-bosnia
I can’t speak for the British and French roles in all of this. But as an American, my respect for the law of this land, and my faith in its immense potential for goodness, empower me to hold my government to a level of accountability commensurate with its unique position in the world. When words of grief are spoken in Srebenica next weekend, it would be an obscenity at the very least for America to not acknowledge its inaction to attempt (not succeed, but just attempt) to use the intelligence and certain knowledge it had to stop that tragic massacre.
We all tear up when Peter Parker hears the words of his late uncle echo in his mind. “With great power, comes great responsibility.” It is time we own up to the values we espouse, to end the hypocrisy and take ownership of our failings. We must not be wary to go on record and acknowledge such failure. That would be cowardice and against everything we believe in. Rather what we must be wary of are the long term consequences of a silence that makes no sense in a nation that prides itself upon making some noise. It is a silence that will surely undermine and mock our current and future efforts to navigate the bloody oceans of world peace. Let’s show some backbone. Let’s be the proverbial grownup in a house full of children, and stand for the justice we are committed to as a nation.
The souls of the boys and men that perished in the violence of Srebenica twenty years ago may well be alive and at peace. What should keep us awake at night is whether we who are left behind, in our drunken pursuit of a perception of peace at any cost, have lost our souls.
On Healy’s Insightful Observation
I read of the time they wanted to wave
The swastika over a shtetl,
I’m oddly impressed the ACLU gave
All it could to that storm in a kettle.
The union had taken a stand that was strong
In seventy-eight, and some called it wrong,
Yet well it reflected the grit of the land
Of the free and the home of the brave. Understand
That the plan didn’t fly, but supposing it had,
And further supposing had something gone bad,
Can you force an incident, however sad,
That MAY just have driven the union mad,
To say: “I am Hitler”?
I can’t.
I get it, the foe of a foe can be friend.
How close is a friendship like that in the end?
You want the stain gone, break out the bleach,
But seek out a pair of good gloves within reach.
And do put them on.
Just for the record, I am not bleach.
I WIll Grieve, I Will Laugh, But I Am Not Charlie, by Josh Healy
http://www.commondreams.org/views/2015/01/13/i-will-grieve-i-will-laugh-i-am-not-charlie
ACLU History: Taking a Stand for Free Speech in Skokie
https://www.aclu.org/free-speech/aclu-history-taking-stand-free-speech-skokie
In an Unequal World, Mocking All Serves the Powerful, by Saladin Ahmed
http://www.nytimes.com/roomfordebate/2015/01/10/when-satire-cuts-both-ways/in-unequal-an-world-mocking-all-serves-the-powerful
The Greater Struggle
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.
-Shaykh Mohammed Amin Kholwadia
When I read in the news last week about the inflammatory Defeat Jihad ad campaign hitting New York City buses, I couldn’t help marvel at how poorly Muslim thinking and preoccupation is represented in the media. It made me ponder the widely known story whereby the Prophet (peace and blessings of God be upon him) once welcomed home troops returning after an expedition. “You have returned from the lesser struggle to the greater struggle”, he is reported to have said to them. When the companions asked him what he meant by the “greater struggle”, he clarified: “the struggle against (the desires of) oneself”.
This story is so widespread and so well diffused into Muslim discourse that it could very well be one of the most cited traditions (hadith) in our times. It is all about the battle with the nafs, the “urging self”. Libraries of Islamic literature are filled with books written by masters of the subject such as Imam Ghazali, sermons abound with the idea, poets have wrought verse about it for centuries. Even I felt compelled to craft a riddle on it two weeks ago. (Seriously, take a look! 🙂
To better understand the idea of the greater jihad, I’d like to lean on what I think is one of the most beautiful modern day lyrical poems in the English language on the topic – Yusuf Islam’s Angel of War. Mr. Islam takes the idea of the greater jihad and embellishes it with the mundane vocabulary of warriors and warfare. But to the seasoned reader/listener, every verse has a remarkably subtle reference to the nafs.
The poem reads as a dialogue between a hypothetical angel of war and a young man who Mr. Islam aptly refers to as a soldier boy. That the poem was cast into song in the tune of his original number, My Lady D’arbanville, dating back to his days of rock-stardom, is no mere coincidence in my opinion, but certainly inconsequential.
Oh, angel of war, what am I fighting for?
If death comes tomorrow, inform me before
Inform me before
Oh, young soldier boy, I’ll tell you what I know
If peace is your wish, to battle you must go
To battle you must go
Oh, angel of war, please, make it clear to me
Which is my side and who is my enemy?
Who is my enemy?
Oh, angel of war, within myself I see
The battle has started, what will become of me?
What will become of me?
Oh, young soldier boy, you’re wiser than you seem
Look into your heart and keep your motives clean
And keep your motives clean
Oh, angel of war, what weapons do I need?
Lest I may perish, that I may succeed
That I may succeed
Oh, young soldier boy, if you protect the poor
Let truth be your armour and justice be your sword
And justice be your sword
Oh, young soldier boy, the war that you wage
If it’s for your ego, it will die in rage
It will die in rage
Oh, angel of war, how can I tell for sure
Pride’s not the reason that I’m fighting for
That I’m fighting for
Oh, angel of war, when I look at me
I’m fearful to confess, the enemy I see
The enemy I see
Oh, young soldier boy, now you can go to war
I’ll see you tomorrow and a boy you’ll be no more
A boy you’ll be no more
Here are a few insights I have gleaned from this poem.
- “O Young Soldier Boy” could be anyone, and is meant for the reader/listener to identify with. Its repetition in every verse is almost taunting, but is clarified in the closing couplets.
- “If peace is your wish, to battle you must go”. This is the overarching theme. If you seek peace then you must wage war. But as the following couplet goes, against who? “Who’s my enemy?” That does not come out until the penultimate couplet.
- Truth as an armor… for the soul. And justice as a sword… for how can justice smite unjustly.
- The closing couplets confirm that one remains a boy – a soldier boy – for as long as one has not recognized that one’s self, one’s nafs, is one’s greatest enemy.
This sort of self-control and introspective battle-readiness is related in countless stories of the prophets and in the biographies of the pious predecessors. Two powerful examples follow.
The First Example
The story of young Ali, the prophet’s cousin (God be pleased with him) when he accepted a duel from the massive Amr son of Abdi Wud is a glowing example of self-restraint that was witnessed by hundreds. The duel begins with Amr and his companions mocking Ali on account of his short stature and youth. It is a classic David and Goliath duel. Ali wields the Zulfiqar to eventually overcome the giant, and straddle his chest. His dagger is inches from being thrust into Amr’s throat when Amr, in a last show of defiance, spits into the younger man’s face.
Now, picture this: you’re surrounded by enemy soldiers even as you duel the strongest of them, while your own remain watchful beyond a broad trench. You are young and strong and the obvious underdog in this poorly balanced match. But then you subdue your adversary by skill and agility, and find yourself the victor in the duel. And then the defeated man insults you, hoping it will bring you to expedite his death.
But what does Ali do?
Ali restrains his dagger, gets off the giant’s chest and steps back. When Amr asks him why he had not slain him, Ali responds that had he slain him then, it would have been out of an anger he felt towards Amr, and not out of love for and service to God.
Now that is the greater jihad. This of course upsets Amr even more, so he picks up his sword and attacks Ali again, and so the story goes. A poetic rendition of the entire incident is here if you like: https://khamuk.com/2012/11/blog-post.html
The Second Example
The ultimate story is that of the Prophet Muhammad (peace and blessings of Almighty God be upon him) when he visits the leaders of the city of Taif seeking their support in his mission. It was a difficult time in the Prophet’s life. His only supporter and protector, his uncle Abu Talib, had died earlier in the year, and his other pillar of support, his beloved wife of twenty-five years, Khadijah, had died a couple months later. His companions in Makkah were being sought out and harassed for professing their belief in one God. The poorer among them were tortured, many killed without restraint.
At this time, the prophet hears that the people of Taif may be sympathetic to his cause. So off he goes to meet with them. They swiftly reject him, but they don’t leave it at that. As he exits their city, the leaders send word to the children and youth playing about to band together and stone him even as he departs the city. So the prophets runs. But he is unable to dodge the rain of stones flying into his face from every direction as he makes his way through mobs of deriding youth, shouting and flinging rocks at his person.
When he finally gets out of stone’s throw, he sits down on a rock and wipes away the blood and sweat dripping down his face. In that moment of weakness and grief, the Angel of the Mountains comes to the Prophet, and asks his leave to bring the two mountains on either side of Taif together that they may crush the city and all within it.
The prophet’s response is packed with a subtlety befitting one who has vanquished his self at many levels. He informs the angel to leave them be, as he sees the possibility that their children may one day believe (and that did come to be). And then he raises his hands in supplication to God and says, “My Lord, if you are not upset with me, then I am alright with what you have decreed”. Now that is an introspective war waged against a nafs already at peace and in full submission. Make whatever sense of that as you may.
And that is the greater jihad in the deepest sense of the term. The peace that we seek (whoever and wherever we be) does not lie in defeating jihad. Rather it stubbornly lies in understanding and embracing it.
As for the misguided engaged in the mindless slaughter of innocents all around the world, whatever faith or ideology or political force they claim an allegiance to, it is time for them to look hard at themselves, into themselves, and to take in what they see.
Oh, angel of war, when I look at me
I’m fearful to confess, the enemy I see
The enemy I see.
I’m fearful to confess, the enemy I see
The enemy I see.
A Simple Sermon
I made the Friday prayers today at the Rolling Meadows mosque, and I have to say it was an excellent experience. At a time when sound khutab are hard to come by, it was revealing to me that a Friday sermon can achieve its purpose on the back of either or both of two things:
- the merit of the message in the khutbah and/or
- the merit of the khateeb’s (sermon-giver’s) sincerity
I thought today’s sermon at the Rolling Meadows mosque was a glowing tribute to the latter. A brief explanation is due here.
When the unassuming Imam stood up and conveyed in the most mundane tones, a simple and mundane message, nobody knew ( I certainly did not know) how worthwhile the next few minutes of our lives would be.
“Remember Allah”, he said. And then a plethora of “the season of the Hajj is upon us”, and “men and women of every color and race and age and intellect will gather together in the worship of one Creator”, and such. Nothing earth-shattering for the regular listener, no hyperbole, the only semblance of any depth coming from a not-so-eloquent narration of a recorded conversation that occurred between a pilgrim and the esteemed Imam Junayd al-Baghdadi.
And that was it! So what am I raving about!?
I once heard Shaykh Amin say (and I paraphrase) that the whole point of the Jumuah khutbah is to take a break from the dunya and immerse oneself in Allah’s remembrance. That alone is the goal of a Friday sermon.
What made that happen today is a bit hard to explain, unless your imagination can fill in the gaps in my shoddy explanation here. At every mention of “Madinah”, “forgiveness”, “Hajj”, the khateeb choked up with tears. Tears. Now you know that nothing washes away dirt like tears, and if you don’t know that, you don’t know “dirt”.
So, if you do not possess the scholarship to break new ground in your khutbah, then please, please, do the next best thing (and may be you’ll even top the scholars). Pick the most simple reminders you can serve to Muslims, and (this is important) say it like you feel it. Mission accomplished in sha Allah. But then again, what do I know?
Oh, right! I know “dirt”.
——————————————————————————————————————–
They’re coming to you now, my Lord
Believers everywhere,
Responding to Ibrahim’s call
That once did pierce the air;
They’ve spent their wealth and shed the threads
That set themselves apart,
And donned the simple shroud that suits
A true believing heart,
They’ll watch their actions in these days,
To hurt no gnat or fly,
And let the dirt without erase
The dirt within must die.
And tears, Lord, the tears flow
Like rivers on a land
That’s parched and thirsting for a show
Of Mercy that is grand.
So take them all on Arafah
And let upon them rains
Of love to wash their sins away
Till none of sins remains.
And we afar, can only hope
The goodness of those slaves
Will bring us strength to grasp the rope
That lifts us from our graves
And huddles us in throngs behind
The man you hold so close:
It is a high we long to find
Upon a day of lows.
Rim to River, River to Rim
My sore legs bear witness that I hiked 7.3 miles down the South Kaibab trail of the Grand Canyon, spent the night at Phantom Ranch and hiked 10.1 miles up the Bright Angel Trail the next day.
YES! And I couldn’t have done it without the following, in order of importance:
- the prayers of some wonderful people 🙂
- two fabulous friends for companions
- a sense of humor that would make vinegar taste like sugar, and
- a pair of sturdy hiking poles (oh yes, very important!)
We met up in Phoenix on the 13th of June and drove to Grand Canyon Village that same afternoon. There, we checked into our room at the very rustic and cozy Maswik Lodge. After a short but restful night, we set out down the South Kaibab at 5:50 AM, about thirty minutes after sunrise. Suffice it to say the South Kaibab is a perilous trail with a steep grade and brutal switchbacks (Wikipedia it for more!). What adds to the excitement is that there is no shade and no potable water the entire 7.3 miles of the trail. So each of us carried 6 liters of water and enough food to last us all the way down.
The views of the canyon are spectacular from this ridge trail. We encountered a pack mule train just past Skeleton Point, and dutifully stepped aside to let it pass. It took us six hours and twenty minutes to get to the Colorado river where we spent a good hour soaking our feet in its cold waters and resting in the shade. I was intrigued that the sands were burning while the waters were icy. We would hear later that day that the Colorado in those parts ran 46 degrees Fahrenheit all year round. I haven’t verified that statement, but I’d certainly recognize the woman that told me that.
Our time at Phantom Ranch was relaxing to say the least, and I slept three hours that afternoon. After an early breakfast at 5 AM the following morning, we set off up the Bright Angel Trail. Despite the steep climb, we covered the five miles to Indian Garden in two and a half hours. After a short rest at the oasis, we continued on for two more miles to the Three Mile Rest House and got there in less than two hours. The Bright Angel offered a different view of the canyon than the less hospitable South Kaibab, with an abundance of greenery, shade and cool flowing streams.
We were only three miles away from the rim, and the thought of being so close filled us with excitement. One of the hikers sharing the shade mentioned how the last 1.5 miles to the rim were considered the most brutal. “Endless switchbacks”, he said. That sounded familiar from a blog post I had read some weeks ago.
We rested our tired feet, and replenished our water supply before continuing our ascent up to the rim, stopping mindfully at the One and a Half Mile Rest House to repeat the rites of refreshment and replenishment. It took us an hour to get there, and our morale was high. But there was no denying the fatigue that was setting in. After an extended break, we decided to brave the last leg of our journey to the rim.
It was slow. We were out of breath every eight minutes or so. I told my companions we’d be in good shape as long as my bad jokes kept coming, and they kept coming for some time. We were particularly troubled when a sixty-six year old hiker and his wife showed up whom we had encountered earlier that morning. They were bound for the river then and now they were passing us on the way up. He attempted to make us feel better by impressing upon us that the Swiss (as he was) were particularly adept hikers. This sharp reminder of our incapacity gave us the adrenaline rush we needed to traverse another one hundred yards before we fell into three distinct piles of meat and bones under another bluff generous with its shade.
We repeated these sprints a few more time and I assured my companions we couldn’t be more than half a mile from the rim when a cheery ranger came jogging down with her hiking poles raised backward and held to her sides. She seemed in a hurry to get to somewhere. I anticipated she was disinclined (ugh!) to stop so I shouted out to her even as she was approaching us, asking how far it was to the rim. She trotted on past us shouting back her response: “One more mile”.
My jokes were getting better, which was bad. And the hiking poles seemed like they needed hiking poles. It had been a little over two hours since we left the last rest house. But we continued on, slowly and steadily. Endless switchbacks.
It took us another hour to get to the rim. The last mile and a half had taken us three gruesome hours. In all, including breaks, we had been on the Bright Angel Trail for nine hours and twenty minutes.
And in all honesty, it was completely worth it. I can only agree with others who say that you haven’t really seen the canyon unless you see it down from the river.
Here are a few more shots selected from the couple hundred we took.
Canyon Of Life
You think you’re prepared
And you step on the trail,
You’ve taken precautions,
Each little detail,
Six liters of water
And four pounds of food,
You’ll know it gets hotter
When the weather turns rude;
It’s seven some miles
Down the South Kaibab,
And the grade is quite brutal,
Makes walking a job
As you pound on the ground
Till your knees feel the weight
Of a growing repulsion
To be canyon bait;
No water at all,
No shade you may rent,
But stop anywhere on
This downward descent,
And turn up your eye,
To take in the sight
Of clear blue skies
And limestone delight;
Look down at the green
Colorado resign
Its waters between
Shores of silvery shine;
You’ll likely encounter
A mule train some place,
Just let them to pass you
With every grace,
And when you get down
To the river, behold
Its shores are on fire,
Its waters are cold,
And here you may sit
And reflect on your fall
From the rim to the river,
Its perils and all,
And take out the time
To plan your ascent
Up the shady Bright Angel
Will make you repent,
Oh yes, it will treat you
To water and shade
And luxuries that
The South Kaibab forbade,
You’ll tell yourself how
You’ve conquered it all,
For eight point five miles;
Then your engine will stall.
The water is there,
And so is the shade,
But the grade’s up a notch,
And your breath is delayed,
It’s a mile and a half
That just seems to go on,
But just keep to the trail
And the trail will respond;
What a glorious sign
This American treasure,
A bowl of serenity
And scenic pleasure,
Descend it to where
From its beauty is found;
Or tell yourself it’s
Just a hole in the ground.
2014 Chaining Project Unveiled at Madame Zuzu’s, And Another Open-mic
Last night was the unveiling of the 2014 Chaining Project conducted by the Highland Park Poetry Chain Gang. I was at the event held at Madame Zuzu’s Tea shop and Art Studio in Highland Park.
It was enjoyable to hear the chain begin with Arthur Rimbaud’s Time Without End, navigate through verse describing a hike in the woods along a polluted stream, and culminate in defeat at a ball game :-).
The open-mic that followed was more interesting than usual. I performed Take Heart, Cabbage Wisdom, and One-Dream Child.
Also it turns out Madame Zuzu’s is owned by Billy Corgan, once frontman for the Smashing Pumpkins. I read some excerpts from his anthology titled Blinking with Fists. Not bad at all.
About the tea served at Madame Zuzu’s… well, the water was certainly hot.
Published in the Society of Classical Poets Annual Journal 2014, Volume 2
Earlier this year, I learned that my entries were selected for publication in the 2014 Annual Journal of the Society of Classical Poets, Volume 2.
In this latest issue, the journal features the works of the top fifteen poets judged in the last competition held by the society. So this is an honor for me, having been published in the previous issue of the journal as well. I recently got my copy and was very impressed with the quality of all the poetic works. I feel honored to be counted among those who were recognized.
Get your copy on Amazon, and please support the society for the good work it does in reviving and promoting classical poetry. My thanks and admiration go to Evan Mantyk, President of the society, for his efforts to this end.
-KM