Khalid Mukhtar

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

Poetry

Change My Heart

· ·

This du’aa in verse is the original work of Shaykh Zulfiqar Ahmed Naqshbandi.  A beautiful supplication in Urdu that I was privileged to hear him render in nasheed some years ago.

دل بدل دے

I beg you, Lord, to change my heart,
So steeped in every heedlessness,
Enslaved by passions, avarice,
And vice I shudder to confess.

Your Mercy, Lord: transform my heart,
Bring back to life its every part.

I’ve tired of my sinful ways,
So cleanse and mend my withered heart,
That I may hear it sing your praise;
I beg you, Lord, to change my heart.

That I might turn my eye away
From what displeases you, I pray
That every moment of my day
Be for your sake: Lord, change my heart.

My every peace and every joy
For something of that solemn grief
That brings with it the sweet relief
Of Your remembrance; change my heart.

I lay, defeated, at your door;
Why am I so, Lord? Change my heart
That I may be for ever more
Your servant, Lord; transform my heart.

My Lord, I beg you, set me free
By making me your humble slave,
For that is all I wish to be.
Lord, hear my plea, and change my heart.

O Light of heavens, Light of earth,
This darkness from my heart dispel;
Replace its grief with lasting mirth,
That in Your Light it might revel.

My Lord, my inward state, reform,
My disposition, well adorn;
My stray and heedless self abate;
Reform me, Lord, and change my state.

Lord, give me from your fount until
Of love for you, I’ve had my fill.
My inward state, My Lord, reform,
My disposition, well adorn;

Your Mercy, Lord: transform my heart,
Bring back to life its every part.

To the Proud Parents of Sulayman

· ·


For every of his infant cry,
That brings to you a weary sigh:

May your ears be blessed with the music of the angels and the celestial sounds of the divine recitation.

For every moment of arrest:
(It is what Sulaymans do best)

May you roam the grounds of vast, verdant gardens, hand in hand, unrestrained.

For all the suffocating phews,
All brought about by his refuse:

May you smell the varied fragrances of Jannah and ever find yourself in the company of its fragrant dwellers.

For every wakeful night that’s spent,
And each arousal inclement:

May you find restful repose without weariness on the warm grassy banks of babbling waters.

May Sulayman be your greatest reward forever, and ever.

On Cancer, Guns, and Hit ‘n Runs

· ·

The chemo sessions wore him down,
He so despised the sterile smells,
The chatter, beeps, and flimsy gown,
And then those plain disgusting gels.

But no more thoughts of days gone by,
Of chances lost, of things begun,
And multitud’nous reasons why
Some of those things just won’t get done.

No, none of that. He closed his eyes,
And saw with utmost clarity
The very light that clarifies
The meaning of reality.

Deceased, 12-20-88

She wore a smile of gratitude,
And softly blinked to see just how
Her crazy life had been renewed,
Was tumor-free for eight years now.

Her loving husband, bratty child,
A recent job promotion, and
Their town home fashionably styled,
All came together just as planned.

She left her car to cross the street,
When, BANG BANG BANG – no time to dive,
Her body hit the cold concrete,
And sprang the rest of her alive.

Deceased, 8-13-94

Returning from the library,
He tried to navigate his thoughts
From English and Geography
To complicated scatter plots.

He’d battled cancer as a child,
And thought that was his hardest time,
Until that college kid went wild,
And shot him in a tragic crime.

Disease and wounds had left him strong,
And strong he was in times of strife,
But then, that night, something went wrong:
A drunken driver took his life.

Deceased, 11-6-08.

I am amongst you even as
I breathe, and wince, and laugh, and cry;
I’ve been with you from evermore.
Deceased, mm-dd-yy.

Feather

· ·

Head…pain.

I pull into the parking lot,
And want to shake my head so bad,
But find that I cannot.

Head…pain…feather.

My immobility persists
While I attempt to process why
These words arrest me so.

Head…pain…feather…child.

And then I see inside my head
A scene projected by my heart,
A fascinating show:

A baby in my mother’s arms
Is rocking slowly back and forth;
She smiles, she laughs, she imitates
His coos so very well.

And as he rocks and bobs his head,
She’s taken by surprise just when
His forehead strikes her in the chest,
How hard, I cannot tell.

But she does seem to wince at that
With baby still held in her arms,
Laughing, then crying out in pain,
And then, laughing again.

I blink to end my reverie.
Feather still eludes me.

The Butterfly and the Bee

· ·


This came out on a quiet Sunday afternoon at the behest of my two little girls. They supplied the words and the scene while I mashed it all together. Quite contrived, but such a fun exercise.

On a bright and sunny morning,
Where the grass grows wild and green,
And the colors of the rainbow
Wash all the flowers clean,

The butterfly came fluttering,
And sat her light self down
Upon a black-eyed Susan’s
Crisp and golden crown;

And was about to sample
The nectar, filling, sweet,
When, overhead, she heard the buzz
Of interrupting feet.

“My kindest salutations,
To you my fluttering friend,
I come with hope to partake of
This black-eyed Susan blend.”

The butterfly turned to him,
Said with a quick Ahem,
“A hundred others sway here now,

Why don’t you visit them?”
Then with a slowly growing smile,
Replied the clever bee,
“A meal is so much better with
The proper company”.

The Proposal

· ·


The thought had come and swiftly gone
At least a dozen times that day,
Then like a close and dear friend,
It caught itself and chose to stay,

And cause a stir in Ali’s heart,
Who gently put his burden down,
Then stretched his sore and ailing self
Upon the parched and dusty ground.

And where he lay upon the dust,
The burning sun shone down upon
The son Medina doted on:
Ali, the soldier, scholar, scribe.

How could a poor man like he
With not a dirham to his name
Aspire so, he shook his head
But considered it just the same.

Good men of higher standing tried,
But everyone had been denied
Their wish to marry Fatima,
Sweet piety personified.

The crisp adhan cut through the air
And shook young Ali from his thoughts,
The lowly water carrier
Broke from his work and made for prayer.

And as he found his lips complete
The call to claim the harvest high,
The indecision left him, for
In every thought does action lie.

The soldier ambled out of prayer,
And saw the man he dearly loved,
The Prophet, making for his home,
His fragrant scent perfumed the air.

With quickened heart and pace to match,
He came to where the Prophet was,
Who turned around and with a smile
Said thus to end the pregnant pause:

“Upon you Peace, Abu Turab”,
To which Ali responded and
Proceeded to articulate
His plea for young Fatima’s hand.

The smile upon the Prophet’s face
Grew brighter as he drew Ali
Towards him, then the words he said
Set Ali’s tender heart to race:

“And what shall be my daughter’s dower?”,
To which did Ali promptly yield,
“The worth of my sole property:
My coat of mail and trusted shield”.

And thus a seed of thought had found,
In young Ali, its fertile ground,
Then from it sprung a blessed tree
That bore its fruit for all to see.

Inspired by the ‘Dedication’ of ‘Bismi And The Secret of The Kohinoor’

· ·

I really like this story, and the author’s Dedication note is touching. It inspired the below.
I thank His Grace for you, my dear,
For you, my dear, have taught my heart

To spring a fount of love so clear,
That falls unto your garden green,
Unstrained and unabated, pure,
And washes all your flowers clean;
So flourish under summer skies,
Where drops of morning dew reflect
The colored wings of butterflies.
And this, beloved, is my prayer
That such a love spring from your heart
To wash another garden fair
Before it leaves the verdant scene
And flows into the ocean love
Of Sayyidi al-Mursaleen.
sallAllahu ‘alayhi wa sallam

I Love You

· ·


I love you. As my day unfolds,
Your angel face my eye beholds,
And painful though the parting be,
I brave it hesitatingly.

I love you. When my day weighs down
Upon me and you’re not aroun’,
I close my eyes and there you are,
So very close, yet very far.

I love you. As the setting sun
Reminds me that my day is done,
I long again, with longing new,
For you, my love. I so love you.

On a mother's perception of her child's perception of death

· ·

This endearing post by a mother inspired the below.

She lifted up her little head,
Looked up at me like never before,
“Mommy”, she said, “if you get dead,
Then I won’t have a Mom anymore.”

My heart leapt up into my throat,
My heavy hands dropped to my knees,
I strove to catch up and devote
My mind to say something with ease.

But speechless was, and stayed that way
Until I said “Who told you that?”,
And thought in vain what to convey
In words to my precocious brat.

I could have said so many things,
So many things about death, to see ‘f
She’d comprehend the peace it brings,
As does pain’s companion, relief;

That death completes all we begin;
For every kiss upon on her face,
And every time I cradle her chin,
And every warm and snug embrace,

There is a kiss yet to be planted,
A cuddle her chin has yet to feel,
A warm, snug hug yet to be granted
Through an application of death’s dark seal.

“I made it up myself”, came the response,
And I, by now, had had enough;
She went back to her squiggly fonts,
I, to my laundry, and other stuff.

Upon seeing a drop of water on my windshield

· ·

I see you form a lens on my windshield

As I stop at a red light,
Lone clear drop of water.
A few of your companions fall around you,
But you have captivated my interest:
A perfectly round drop of water
Deposited by your angel escorts
Upon my windshield.
Have you memories, water drop,
Of your past descents, each ending a cycle
That all began with glorious creation itself?
Have you memories?
Were you amongst the drops that swallowed up
The world of Nuh?
Or did you land upon his strong and noble shoulder,
And stay there for a while?
Or were you a drop that clung to the hair of Jonah
As he came to his senses in the repulsive darkness?
Did you slide down his cheek and mix with his tears
As he turned in humility to his, and your, Master.
Or do you trace yourself to a proud parentage
Of one that sprung from the muddy heels
Of Ismaeel, as he lay on his back, a crying infant?
Did you quench his thirst, and make his dear mother
Weep with joy?
Or did you find yourself in a pail with little Yusuf,
When they hoisted him out of a well?
Cold and lost, but reassured.
Were you there, dear drop?
Or were you a party of those that splashed upon
The shores of the Red Sea, as Musa called upon his Lord?
Or were you perched up high on a liquid wall,
Atop all your companions;
Or down, at the bottom, watching his blessed feet
Lead the rest across a damp sea bed?
You cannot hold on, as forces break the tension and
Pull you down in a streak, just a little bit.
Weary drop: have you a memory of quenching the thirst
Of a righteous soldier of Talut,
Slithering down his parched throat?
Were you bid that honor?
Or did you babble in the stream that noble Maryam drank from,
And did you witness the sacred birth?
Did you touch litle Isa, little drop?
Were you a comfort to him and his mother?
Were you?
And when my Prophet rested at Badr,
Did you come down and wet his beautiful face?
Did you feel his love as he rubbed you into his beard?
Did your escorts stay by your side
A little longer than usual that time?
Were you bid that honor, my dear little drop?
Were you?
And now, as you slide down my windshield:
Does this my encounter with you separate
Your past glories from your future ones?
The honor is mine.