Khalid Mukhtar

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

Poetry

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.

How Dear You Are To His Beloved

· ·

On the streets of Chennai, half covered by a discarded shawl
Trying hard to sleep on the cold pavement,
Trying hard to forget it all,
Dear child: how magnified you are in the sight of Allah,
And how dear you are to His beloved.
In the camps of Kigali, staring blankly into the sand,
Trying hard to stay awake
As you hold your sister’s cold hand,
Dear child: how magnified you are in the sight of Allah,
And how dear you are to His beloved.
In your cozy Chicago home, surrounded by stuffed toys,
Feeling your heart rise up in your throat,
Feigning sleep to tune out the noise,
Dear child: how magnified you are in the sight of Allah,
And how dear you are to His beloved.

The Snake

· ·

On a warm afternoon, in the shade of a palm,
Speckled with the sun’s golden light,
The companions stood behind their Imam,
The Prophet of God, dressed in white.

The journey was ending and home was near,
Near enough to long for its joys;
As the second salaam sealed the prayer,
The Prophet smiled, and looked for the boys.

How strong was their stand when they had been told
By their father and mother to forgo the ride;
The command only tightened their hold,
Determined to remain by their grandfather’s side.

Thus were the two little darlings counted
Among this group leaving their ground,
The horses were saddled, the camels mounted;
But not one trace of the boys was found.

Now let us visit our two little friends
Who wandered away, away from camp
Into the desert where the sun descends
Over the sands like a crimson lamp.

Down a dune they rolled and leapt
And wrestled playfully each other,
While nearby a someone crept,
Unknown to Hassan and his brother.

The snake, she started from her rest
And spanned her length towards the boys
To vehemently stage protest
With all the strength a snake employs.

The children’s eyes went wide with fear
They clutched each other, set to bound,
But stopped to see the snake so near,
And that was when they looked around.

They sobbed aloud, their tears flowing
And darkening the twilit day,
The snake inched forward, not knowing
What sense to make of this display.

Back with the Prophet and his company:
They searched everywhere, yet could not find
A clue as to where the children might be,
Despite their frantic efforts combined.

The Prophet looked up at the darkening sky,
Then down at the earth respectfully,
And taking the name of his Lord most high,
He bid it show what he wished to see.

And the earth did respond to his blessed request,
For to his good eye, the desert sand shifted,
Till the land was flat with its dunes depressed,
And the boys far and low were near, lifted.

Their crying had grown louder and louder,
Causing the reptile ready itself,
To strike; but then a sensation cowed her
Pinning her down to the sandy shelf.

A fragrant scent filled the air
That wrapped the boys in hope and strength;
They turned their heads with the greatest care:
Their grandfather at a hand’s length.

The Prophet motioned them to stay,
And stepped toward the confounded snake,
“Leave my grandsons and be on your way”.
And she vanished for the Prophet’s sake.

The children cheered, and jumped and flew
To hold and kiss the Prophet’s face,
And he in turn did kiss them too,
Then thanked the Lord for His grace.

This is where our story runs dry,
So moisten your eye and send down a rain
Of prayers and blessings of God most high
Upon the Prophet, Hassan, and Husayn.

On a Ramadan Morning Getting Ready For Work

· ·

The last drop of water slithers down my throat
And leaves me desiring no more.
Dawn is here.
I have a busy day at work,
So I shower down, and dress up.

As I look into the mirror to comb my hair,
My eyes serve me back a look,
A look that warns me to be wary,
A look that has me looking back, back at it.

Everything before my eyes
Gets to it at the speed of light,
And once I see it, its burned in my head
Like so many a forbidden delight.
But my eyes don’t want to be fed.
Not today, not quite.

As I look away from my reflection,
I can’t help but give a moment’s thought to the blind,
Thinking who was the more blessed
In the light of the thoughts I left behind.

Good men come to mind
And the answer is right there:
It is he who sees, and yet is blind
To the questionable affair.

I smile at the terribly winding path I took
To arrive at this obvious conclusion.
But I’m glad I combed my hair today.

Ghazwah

· ·

The sand shifted silently
Like an amused spectator, curious.
Both sides had fallen into quiet observation.
My companion and I witnessed
From our vantage point atop a rock
The traditional advance of a trio, and its match.
The blows are symbolic, portending something.
Something.

The fallen are carried back to their mourning kin.

The next moments are cold and long,
Pregnant with a charge so strong.
I see a youth and his friend
Toss their meal to just belong,
And join in earnest to defend
The Truth, as they did comprehend.

One thousand, armed and confident,
Facing a third, weary, spent.
The battle lines are straight and taut.
The bow of faith and the bow of naught,
Strung and drawn by the sage fingers
Of generals once bound in clanship,
Now split by the sting of truth’s whip.

A soldier strutted and spanned the ranks,
Flashing his blade in haughty stride,
Raising resolve on the one side,
Causing the other’s eyes go wide.

The cavalry is on a canter,
Chilling battle cries ensue.
My friend and I are cold with awe
As blade and armor clang a charge,
The likes of which I never knew.

The walls of men are closing in,
Spawning swirls of sand, the din
Is deafening, its source unclear;
For to the scene, we are not near.

Then did our wrinkled brows unfold
As phantom armies now showed bold.
The sand around the charging groups
Spiralled to enormous hoops
Of presences.

Yes, presences. Their nature eludes me;
Horsemen gliding on an iron cloud, led by
One, a sun for his turban high.
I hold my breath as my ears are filled
With this clamor. And my peeled eyes
Are flooded by the scene thus willed.
And I know I live though my heart denies
It; my companion by all this killed.

At the airport

· ·

I recline in a welcoming leather seat
At Phoenix’s Sky Harbor, Terminal 1, Gate 3.
My flight is delayed, again.
But I shall stand the fleet.
I shake my head at the cheesy wordplay; go figure!
I tear myself from my read to take in
The noisy sights around me.
A few co-hobbyists do the same,
Others choose to ignore the din.
The line by Gate 2 is growing fast now
For a flight to Denver delayed by a greater degree than mine.
I venture to let the makers of that line enthuse me,
Each different from the other in every way,
And all quite eager to board.
There are the patient by nature and the patient by choice.
I count:
A talkative yuppie in love with her voice,
A blissful custodian of wandering eyes,
A self-engaged preener, a gum chewing scribe,
A hasty to finish his burger and fries,
An exhausted merchant tapping his wares,
The lost in chatter, the longing to rest,
All masters of vacant stares.
And these would be broad categories at best.
As I meander out of my rhymelet,
I twitch my lip in hosting the thought
That each linemaker is at his own vantage point,
And I am just a mentionable in her verse,
Whatever the rendering be.
But I’m not going to Denver.
My thoughts are with my family now;
I wonder if the cactus jelly and prickly pear syrup
Will disappoint.

The Host

· ·

Adi, the son of Haatim Al-Tayy, was a leader among his people, a Christian from the proud tribe of Al-Tayy. His sister was among the notables who were captured in a battle between the people of Al-Tayy and the Muslim army. When the Prophet learnt that she was the daughter of Haatim, renowned for his generosity, he let her go, as he did all of her people. And he paid tribute to Haatim’s character. Adi had fled with a small group following the battle, but when his sister bid him return and advised him to go to the Prophet, he relented. And he set off for the City of the Prophet. And his life changed…
A few words pass between them
They walk now, the pace compelling the guest to lag.
The host is brisk.
I squint past the body of people bustling about the busy day
To catch a glimpse.
As they draw closer, I am hit by a first wave of what I see;
And it amazes me.
A questioner enters my scene and stops my party in its advance.
He turns towards the source of this interruption
And engages in dialogue, guest in wait.
Questioner, host and guest, they all interest me;
I focus on the host to use my chance,
The entirety of his features weigh down on me,
Driving me into the earth beneath my feet,
As if to underscore my presence there with the ink
Of inconsistency sweet.
His face is brilliant,
Hair, black and curling some at the shoulders,
A lock floating, now wafted up by a stray breeze,
Eyes round and wide and attentive,
Skin smooth and soft, if only I could touch it, please!
I give a moment of thought to the men and women
Who would gladly give their lives,
Merchants their stock,
Scholars their thoughts,
Mothers their children,
All for my host kept from his walk.
And the angels flock to his aid, offering service
Before the softest sigh may escape those lips,
Only to find them thankful, never complaining,
So much to complain about, but never complaining.
Bless the hearts of hate that turn over
Into hearts of love,
Some when they see,
Others when they hear,
Others when they touch.
And now Adi.
The host returns to his guest,
A brief word, and the walk resumes,
Now abreast, now lagging again,
Despite the effort the guest assumes.
Destination mud house behind me.
A scent fills my being as my party is ever so close.
I do not doubt its source, and inhale,
Seemingly forever.
They have now reached my stand.
They step on my shadow
And vanish behind the doors of the mud house.
The crowds are gone,
My shadow is gone,
My shoulders are heavy,
My fancy wanting,
My eye wet.
SallAllahu ‘alayhi wa sallam.