Breathless (Ode to Zahurmian)
I am breathless at the wonder of it all!
You, breathed your last blessing,
Whilst in this world still living;
But your blessings keep coming,
Like a tree that keeps blooming,
Annually
Since you became breath-less,
You breathe blessings, more not less;
The breath of your loving
Breathes life into my living,
Continually.
The high thinking and simple living
You bequeathed, is breezing
In, around, below and above;
In the way you spoke of love,
Frequently.
Numberless mysteries,
(Treasures not trifles),
You gave me the key for.
Who could do more?
Endlessly.
I had thought I was knowing,
But the breath of your loving,
Is continually showing me,
My ignorance, now I see -
Hopefully.
But in a strange way it is sort pleasing,
Because when a donkey I am being,
Ignorantly braying, unable to see,
That it is you who are riding me
Skilfully,
My ignorance has this virtue at least,
You can guide me like any kind of beast;
And shows just how important to me
You were and will continue to be,
Absolutely.
I sometimes shudder inside, unseen,
To think how it might have been,
If your hand I had not kissed,
How much I would have missed,
Foolishly!
But my purpose is not just to eulogise,
(Though for this I do not apologise),
But to recall the subtle message you were giving;
That, for all, the way to better living, is in loving,
Quietly;
And that worshipping is not just declaring,
And fasting, and praying, and giving -
It is living each day like you, with grace,
Wisely and well, a member of the human race,
Lovingly.
I see you rising from out of an ocean,
Of chaos, contradiction and confusion;
Emerging, with a knowing smile
Like one who has gone the extra mile,
Truly.
If my life has any meaning at all,
It is in manifesting the way of Zahur.
JMZ April 2012
Beneath the Apple Tree
I really don’t know why,
But I thought I would try,
To read a book of English poetry,
Sitting beneath a sunlit apple tree.
Perhaps to see what I’d passed by;
Deliberately left behind as I
Pursued another way to love,
Another path to heaven above.
I am really glad I did,
Open the old rusty lid,
For there is treasure here,
In minds so very clear.
Not that I was wrong to pass by
I‘d never have really known why
They shine, besides I lacked the key
To open up that kind of mystery
The Way to the One,
Is not so easily won!
One cannot distracted be,
By every passing fantasy.
But seeing what I saw, I see now,
Whatever glistens is gold somehow;
And with this universal key,
I’ll spend some time in the company,
Of Keats, Shelley, Coleridge and old Milton,
Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Johnson, and so on.
So speak to the mind, heart,
Or soul, or to their best part
And we will share a poetic brew
Now, shall I go first, or will you?
I know some poets from another clime
Who know how to turn a pretty rhyme.
A poem can be a very refined lady
Or a tavern wench, you will agree.
Each has its own charms, I see
Let us revel in their company.
The Bus Bound for Destiny’s Terminus
Like travellers together on a bus,
That only stops at the terminus;
The end for all is sure and certain,
And on this bus we must remain;
(Try to get off at all they just pack
You into the lost luggage rack).
So let us on this journey use our brain,
And from selfish behaviour ever refrain;
So the conductor will speak of us well
When we reach the place of which we tell.
I am breathless at the wonder of it all!
You, breathed your last blessing,
Whilst in this world still living;
But your blessings keep coming,
Like a tree that keeps blooming,
Annually
Since you became breath-less,
You breathe blessings, more not less;
The breath of your loving
Breathes life into my living,
Continually.
The high thinking and simple living
You bequeathed, is breezing
In, around, below and above;
In the way you spoke of love,
Frequently.
Numberless mysteries,
(Treasures not trifles),
You gave me the key for.
Who could do more?
Endlessly.
I had thought I was knowing,
But the breath of your loving,
Is continually showing me,
My ignorance, now I see -
Hopefully.
But in a strange way it is sort pleasing,
Because when a donkey I am being,
Ignorantly braying, unable to see,
That it is you who are riding me
Skilfully,
My ignorance has this virtue at least,
You can guide me like any kind of beast;
And shows just how important to me
You were and will continue to be,
Absolutely.
I sometimes shudder inside, unseen,
To think how it might have been,
If your hand I had not kissed,
How much I would have missed,
Foolishly!
But my purpose is not just to eulogise,
(Though for this I do not apologise),
But to recall the subtle message you were giving;
That, for all, the way to better living, is in loving,
Quietly;
And that worshipping is not just declaring,
And fasting, and praying, and giving -
It is living each day like you, with grace,
Wisely and well, a member of the human race,
Lovingly.
I see you rising from out of an ocean,
Of chaos, contradiction and confusion;
Emerging, with a knowing smile
Like one who has gone the extra mile,
Truly.
If my life has any meaning at all,
It is in manifesting the way of Zahur.
JMZ April 2012
Beneath the Apple Tree
I really don’t know why,
But I thought I would try,
To read a book of English poetry,
Sitting beneath a sunlit apple tree.
Perhaps to see what I’d passed by;
Deliberately left behind as I
Pursued another way to love,
Another path to heaven above.
I am really glad I did,
Open the old rusty lid,
For there is treasure here,
In minds so very clear.
Not that I was wrong to pass by
I‘d never have really known why
They shine, besides I lacked the key
To open up that kind of mystery
The Way to the One,
Is not so easily won!
One cannot distracted be,
By every passing fantasy.
But seeing what I saw, I see now,
Whatever glistens is gold somehow;
And with this universal key,
I’ll spend some time in the company,
Of Keats, Shelley, Coleridge and old Milton,
Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Johnson, and so on.
So speak to the mind, heart,
Or soul, or to their best part
And we will share a poetic brew
Now, shall I go first, or will you?
I know some poets from another clime
Who know how to turn a pretty rhyme.
A poem can be a very refined lady
Or a tavern wench, you will agree.
Each has its own charms, I see
Let us revel in their company.
The Bus Bound for Destiny’s Terminus
Like travellers together on a bus,
That only stops at the terminus;
The end for all is sure and certain,
And on this bus we must remain;
(Try to get off at all they just pack
You into the lost luggage rack).
So let us on this journey use our brain,
And from selfish behaviour ever refrain;
So the conductor will speak of us well
When we reach the place of which we tell.
A Brief Story of Time - Overcome
Would you like a glimpse beyond Time, with me,
Only a glimpse mind! More would be too much to see,
More cannot so easily be born,
It could leave a frail mind far too torn.
Step through this mirror then and look.
There, being written, is The Book.
See there is Adam being made,
And the angels complaining and afraid.
There see Shaitan objecting to prostrate,
And here Adam with Eve repenting too late.
Over there the Last Judgement is underway;
See great Muhammed, the beloved, learning to pray.
Over there Gabriel is giving life to Jesus, see!
There the universe is becoming what it will be,
To your left the Divine assembly sits in parliament,
Right the Abdal meet, summoned by Gabriel's intent.
See in that corner those palaces of light,
Real estate prices there are really a fright!
Out of this world, if you will forgive the joke!
The saints live there - the true inspired folk.
Over there is the Muslim Paradise pure,
And see yonder the hell fire for sure.
Way over there the Hindu heavens see,
And the Buddha's wheel and old Lao Tze.
Want a more local view? There you are, being born,
There a child, there an adult, and here, see others mourn.
Don't look too close or you will be there now!
Don't ask - it just happens that way somehow.
.
That circle of souls are the Holy fold, you in their midst,
With a bag over your head, wondering what you missed.
There are the seven heavens, and above Hafiz smiles,
Mevlana meets Shems Tabrizi here, and there he whirls.
And yonder see the august hall of fame
For those who in the world have made a name.
And behold there flows the 'super highway'
And before us appears the 'straight way'.
I could show you more, much more, but don't ask how,
Let the mirror cloud, and return to what you think is now.
JMZ Jan/Feb 12
The Beauties of Poetry
A poem is like a woman for sure,
All come knocking on Joseph’s door,
And, on demand, their pass showing,
Orange, knife, and a palm bleeding;
Poems come to the poet in such variety,
Each displaying their unique femininity;
Alluring, seductive, a little reluctant,
Or eager, and energetically expectant;
Sensitive, shy and wondering why,
Or openly and boldly giving the eye;
Slickly silky and even slightly sly,
Or on some kind of natural high;
Mystically, moody and alluring,
Or commanding and demanding;
Tough talking but tender beneath
(A bit like overly cooked beef);
Curvaceously cute with long flowing locks,
Or not bothered about superficial looks;
Chatty and endlessly witty,
Or girlishly young and pretty;
Wide eyed, trusting and adoring,
Or deep, but apparently boring;
Pious and pure, like a prayer;
Or cheeky and given to banter;
Modest, mild, meek and demure,
Or forever demanding yet more;
Reassuringly confident in every way,
Or just plain having a great deal to say;
To the point, straight up, and direct,
Or subtly suggestive to good effect;
Intellectually stimulating and exciting,
Or salaciously seductive and inviting.
About poems, and women, one could say so much more,
But in common they both want to reach heaven’s door.
The poem demands from the poet’s time,
To be dressed in the best words and rhyme;
And a woman demands her allures,
Are decked out for a love that endures.
Of course there’s a difference really,
Between women’s ways and poetry;
A poem has certain limits for sure,
But a woman’s ways – need I say more!
In reality there is only one poem, ultimately,
And only one Poet writing it, beautifully;
Just as there is really only one true story -
Of Joseph’s beauty, hardship, and glory.
Afterthought
In case your worthy sense of purity,
Is offended by this talk of femininity;
Remember the words are from the heart,
And hear it, I pray, with your better part;
And in the holy Qur’an one may see,
(And with this you must surely agree),
Silver limbed ones of such great beauty,
Described with complete gravity.
Would you like a glimpse beyond Time, with me,
Only a glimpse mind! More would be too much to see,
More cannot so easily be born,
It could leave a frail mind far too torn.
Step through this mirror then and look.
There, being written, is The Book.
See there is Adam being made,
And the angels complaining and afraid.
There see Shaitan objecting to prostrate,
And here Adam with Eve repenting too late.
Over there the Last Judgement is underway;
See great Muhammed, the beloved, learning to pray.
Over there Gabriel is giving life to Jesus, see!
There the universe is becoming what it will be,
To your left the Divine assembly sits in parliament,
Right the Abdal meet, summoned by Gabriel's intent.
See in that corner those palaces of light,
Real estate prices there are really a fright!
Out of this world, if you will forgive the joke!
The saints live there - the true inspired folk.
Over there is the Muslim Paradise pure,
And see yonder the hell fire for sure.
Way over there the Hindu heavens see,
And the Buddha's wheel and old Lao Tze.
Want a more local view? There you are, being born,
There a child, there an adult, and here, see others mourn.
Don't look too close or you will be there now!
Don't ask - it just happens that way somehow.
.
That circle of souls are the Holy fold, you in their midst,
With a bag over your head, wondering what you missed.
There are the seven heavens, and above Hafiz smiles,
Mevlana meets Shems Tabrizi here, and there he whirls.
And yonder see the august hall of fame
For those who in the world have made a name.
And behold there flows the 'super highway'
And before us appears the 'straight way'.
I could show you more, much more, but don't ask how,
Let the mirror cloud, and return to what you think is now.
JMZ Jan/Feb 12
The Beauties of Poetry
A poem is like a woman for sure,
All come knocking on Joseph’s door,
And, on demand, their pass showing,
Orange, knife, and a palm bleeding;
Poems come to the poet in such variety,
Each displaying their unique femininity;
Alluring, seductive, a little reluctant,
Or eager, and energetically expectant;
Sensitive, shy and wondering why,
Or openly and boldly giving the eye;
Slickly silky and even slightly sly,
Or on some kind of natural high;
Mystically, moody and alluring,
Or commanding and demanding;
Tough talking but tender beneath
(A bit like overly cooked beef);
Curvaceously cute with long flowing locks,
Or not bothered about superficial looks;
Chatty and endlessly witty,
Or girlishly young and pretty;
Wide eyed, trusting and adoring,
Or deep, but apparently boring;
Pious and pure, like a prayer;
Or cheeky and given to banter;
Modest, mild, meek and demure,
Or forever demanding yet more;
Reassuringly confident in every way,
Or just plain having a great deal to say;
To the point, straight up, and direct,
Or subtly suggestive to good effect;
Intellectually stimulating and exciting,
Or salaciously seductive and inviting.
About poems, and women, one could say so much more,
But in common they both want to reach heaven’s door.
The poem demands from the poet’s time,
To be dressed in the best words and rhyme;
And a woman demands her allures,
Are decked out for a love that endures.
Of course there’s a difference really,
Between women’s ways and poetry;
A poem has certain limits for sure,
But a woman’s ways – need I say more!
In reality there is only one poem, ultimately,
And only one Poet writing it, beautifully;
Just as there is really only one true story -
Of Joseph’s beauty, hardship, and glory.
Afterthought
In case your worthy sense of purity,
Is offended by this talk of femininity;
Remember the words are from the heart,
And hear it, I pray, with your better part;
And in the holy Qur’an one may see,
(And with this you must surely agree),
Silver limbed ones of such great beauty,
Described with complete gravity.
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Bibi Raabia’s Way
This implication I find indeed,
In what I hear, see, and read,
About Him for Whose Mercy I sigh.
This is what He seems to imply:
‘Take refuge in Me from Me,
From My Wrath to My Mercy ever flee.
In each you will find only Me;
So ask yourself which you would rather be;
In the paradise of My Gracious smile,
Or in My frown tossing in a different style.
Which you decide makes no difference to Me,
But to you the difference amazing will be.’
All this being so, and those who know,
Will surely say so; this thought in me did grow;
Fruit from the seeds His true lovers did sow.
Like Bibi Raabia, and those who really do know;
That from our ‘self’ we should try to be free.
Since from Him we cannot in any way flee,
The Beloved alone our objective should be;
And if from our ‘self’ His Love makes us free,
We may dwell in Him; and in Him may see,
That His Wrath and His Mercy were really,
Reflections of our own self-hood ironically,
For He is not other than Pure Love you see.
This caveat it seems to me I must make,
In case this all leads you to a mistake,
If no guide you have to His Love’s Way,
In His Mercy try always and ever to stay.
This implication I find indeed,
In what I hear, see, and read,
About Him for Whose Mercy I sigh.
This is what He seems to imply:
‘Take refuge in Me from Me,
From My Wrath to My Mercy ever flee.
In each you will find only Me;
So ask yourself which you would rather be;
In the paradise of My Gracious smile,
Or in My frown tossing in a different style.
Which you decide makes no difference to Me,
But to you the difference amazing will be.’
All this being so, and those who know,
Will surely say so; this thought in me did grow;
Fruit from the seeds His true lovers did sow.
Like Bibi Raabia, and those who really do know;
That from our ‘self’ we should try to be free.
Since from Him we cannot in any way flee,
The Beloved alone our objective should be;
And if from our ‘self’ His Love makes us free,
We may dwell in Him; and in Him may see,
That His Wrath and His Mercy were really,
Reflections of our own self-hood ironically,
For He is not other than Pure Love you see.
This caveat it seems to me I must make,
In case this all leads you to a mistake,
If no guide you have to His Love’s Way,
In His Mercy try always and ever to stay.
A Bright Spark
A good poem should always be quite terse,
Not dreamy or vague – quite the reverse.
Nor like lightning, a flash in the dark night,
But like a spark that sets the wick alight.
Then in the mind a true flame grows,
And in the heart with love everything glows.
A good poem should always be quite terse,
Not dreamy or vague – quite the reverse.
Nor like lightning, a flash in the dark night,
But like a spark that sets the wick alight.
Then in the mind a true flame grows,
And in the heart with love everything glows.