Khalid Mukhtar

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

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.

My Foes

· ·

I have two foes I much despise,
One to crush, the other to curse.
They fill my eyes with poison dyes,
Cloud my ears with trifle fears,
And nibble at my rope of hope.

For when they set to play their wile,
They find in me such easy game,
Heedless to their simple guile.
I slap my face in horrid shame
When I see the one and I are same;
The other wears a gleeful smile.

I mend my rope, and clear my ears
And wet my eyes with penitent tears.
I now have one I so detest,
The other now my helper best.
I take my oath to never rest,
To never rest, never rest.

My first message

· ·

Welcome to my blog. 
Over the next few days, I plan to post poems I have written in the past. Once I’ve done that, I will continue posting my new works as they come to be.

And I welcome all kinds of feedback, of course :-).