Khalid Mukhtar

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

Poetry

On Rimbaud’s Eternity

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Inspired by Arthur Rimbaud’s Eternity
How can the reaches of a mortal mind
Encompass what defies encompassing,
To plumb the depths of time and space to find
The secrets that such explorations bring.
This fascination makes my inward eye
Reflect upon the play of earth and sun:
How rays of gold that wash the morning sky
Drip crimson when the turn of day is done
Until they kiss the sparkle of the sea;
And when I see the jewels of the night,
I know the sun is rising though it be
For but a new beholder of its sight.
While minds are strained and spent in time and space,
Do hearts approach eternity by grace.

How Sweet is the Song

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On the blessed birth of Jesus, the son of Mary.

Note: I didn’t mean for this to follow the meter of Away in a manger, it just happened.

How sweet is the song
Of a stream in the wild
That softens its rush
At the coos of a child;

How sweet is the song
Of the leaves in the breeze
That rustle and fall
On the weary knees

And hands of a maiden
So pure as the dawn
Caressing the face
Of her baby that shone;

How sweet is the song
Of the grass that is green,
Where showers of dates
Meet the water serene;

How sweet is the song
Of the angels that span
The space and the time
Which with Adam began.

This Word from the Lord
So conceived in the morn:
How blessed the child
In a day that is born.

The Friday Song for Little Muslimahs

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The week is behind us, the weekend’s ahead
As Friday reminds us: be happy instead.
There’s food’s on the table, and health in our hands,

We’ve got no worries and we haven’t any plans;


We do our hair and our nails after taking our showers,
And dress up in clothes all embroidered with flowers;
We moisten our hearts, plant the sweetest of words
In the soil of remembrance, a home to the birds:

Every verse spreads its wings, rises high up to fly
Through a love like the meadow and a faith like the sky
Till it reaches its perch in the tree of my heart,
Where it lives on forever, to never depart,

And the song from this tree on this day of the week

Brings believers and angels each other to seek,
Now if Friday were my day, I’d make it so long
Till my heart joins the rhythm in the beat of this song.

The week is behind us, the weekend’s ahead
As Friday reminds us: be happy instead.
There’s food’s on the table, and health in our hands,
We’ve got no worries and we haven’t any plans.

Tears and Whispers

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In our efforts to be virtuous we often tolerate injustice. And in our efforts to be just, we often overstep our bounds. True justice lies in knowing the rights of creation. It is why the best of creation (prayers and peace be upon him) was the most moderate in temper, for excellence is the sum of all acts wrought in moderation.

Take care you are not blinded by
The tears in your eyes
That long to weep an ocean deep
For all that they receive;

Take care you are not deafened by
The whispers in your ear
That like the clamor of a hammer
Make your heart to grieve;

But let your inward temperate check
Your hearing and your sight;
There is no virtue if when hurt,
You steal another’s right.

Won the “Lighting of the Fire” Poetry Contest

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Good news for me. I recently learned that my entry was placed first in the “Lighting of the Fire” Poetry Contest sponsored by Highland Park Poetry and the Ravinia Neighbors Association.
I have been invited to read it at the November 22nd Centennial Celebration of the Ravinia Village House (that’s Friday night).

Here’s an article talking about the upcoming celebration.
http://www.ravinianeighbors.org/ravinia-neighbors-association-blog/your-invitation-to-a-once-in-a-century-event

And here’s the winning poem.
http://www.highlandparkpoetry.org/home.html

My sincere thanks to the Ravinia Neighbors Association and Highland Park Poetry for this recognition. I’ve pasted the poem below in case the above link expires :-).

A Spark and a Fire

I often set to wonder why
We take the stands we take;
What makes us rise from where we lie,
And stirs our hearts to wake

When forth, the ever silent, speak
To light a tiny spark
That burns a flame by which we seek
To drive away the dark;

Like planters of the olive tree,
They never taste its fruit,
Which, like the one who eats from it,
Knows nothing of its root.

I think the answer might well be
The courage of a few
Whose grit, resolve, tenacity,
And other virtues too

Deliver us to light again
This fire that will burn
In honor of their service then,
An honor we return.

Wind Beneath My Feet

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I’m late for work and I’m driving down the street,
I’ve got the road in my hands and the wind beneath my feet;

I’m worn and weary of the one who makes me yawn,
I’d rather breathe in the colors of the autumn in the dawn;

Will I live to see the sunset and the night?
Will I see this song to its end within my sight?

The only thing I am certain of is this:
That the world is filled with things I will not miss

If I climb the mountain, descend into the cave
Where the mines of merciful love receive a slave;

I won’t need to worry if I make it to those mines;
How the darkness goes when the Light of mercy shines

Till I find that diamond and hold it to my face,
Yes, I know my gem of redemption’s in that place.

But for now I’m glad that I’m driving down this street,
I’ve got the road in my hands and the wind beneath my feet;

I feel like everything in the world belongs to me,
I feel like everything in the world belongs to me.

The Messenger, peace be upon him, said, “If anyone among you is secure in mind in the morning, healthy in body, possessed of food for the day, it is as though the whole world has been brought into his possession.”

Fox, Persistent

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Although this poem is crafted as a first-person account, I was not part of the experience recounted in it. Rather it is based on what I heard from the esteemed Dr. Umar AbdAllah in a lecture delivered recently at Darul Qasim. The scene is the lush campus of the Alqueria de Rosales in Southern Spain. 
These last few days, each day had we
A visit from a fox,
A quiet, handsome creature, he
Attended all our talks;
For when we’d set to congregate
Upon a grassy hill
To purposefully separate
Our hearts from chatter ill,
This beast was wont to venture near
Neath the temperate sun,
Day after day to persevere
In a skulk of one.
He caused us no distraction nor
To mischief he inclined,
But stood in grand inaction for
What pacified his mind.
Then on that peaceful night as we
Prepared ourselves for prayer,
We sensed a sweet serenity
Excite the silent air;
I do suspect our vulpine friend
Detected it as well,
How quietly did he ascend
The grounds I cannot tell.
However, witness may I bear:
He walked the straightest line
Between the crowds assembled there
And made an exit fine.
I think the blessed night of Qadr
Came upon us then,
Upon us and on every other
Creature in that glen.

Take Heart

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My daughter blurted the phrase “leaves can have dimples” as part of an otherwise nonsensical conversation this morning. The silly phrase landed up defining the rest of my drive to work.

Even leaves can have dimples
If you know what dimples be
In the grand scheme of beauty
To a shy and simple tree.

Even rocks host a banquet
If you know what banquets be
In the grand scheme of gaiety
To a sunny rockery.

And when the tear-laden cloud
Crosses winds that blow and blow
Till it throws a thunder tantrum
As its tears begin to flow,

Then the dimpled smiles of leaves
And the feasting of the rocks
Make the cloud that sadly grieves
To ignore the wind that mocks.

Even clouds feel encouraged
If you know what courage be
In the grand scheme of being
To whatever tries to be.

So stop drowning in your worries
And take heart from what you see:
Even leaves can have dimples
If you know what dimples be.

On Sonnets

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To forge a sonnet is an art supreme;
It begs a certain clarity of thought
To court a shy yet unrelenting theme
And groom it in apparel that is brought
By aptitude and skill with written word;
To gaze into suspended space and time
And trap a flight of fancy in a bird
That preens its wings to alternating rhyme:
Three quatrains, then a couplet at the end
To tenderly and mercifully wean
You from the shady branches that extend
A dozen roses from the fertile green
Imagination of a sonneteer,
More captivating than the subject here.

Tree of Time

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The yellow and gold,
Like drops of the sun,
Do glow in the days
Before they are done;

The orange and red,
And purple and black
Appear instead
To temper the lack

Of green on the scene,
For what isn’t green
Is rather begotten
By hues in between;

This tall tree of time
Forever believes
To bear generations
Of leaves upon leaves.

Now do we not bloom
In spring, to be green
In summer? Come fall,
Are hues in between;

That when we are old
Like drops of the sun,
Are yellow and gold
Before we are done

In winter’s embrace,
So this tree may bear
Our children by grace
When spring’s in the air.