recent Zahuri poetry page 3
Tell them...
Tell them a little of what they want to hear,
But season it with a little of what they fear.
Tell them of roses and sweet scented flowers,
Of the smile of the Pirs and shaded arbours;
But include hints of the hardships that precede,
Arriving at the happy place for which they plead.
Its a place of ease that is unimaginably good,
But the road there is through a deep, dark, wood.
Don’t horrify them altogether, with a scary story,
But don’t let them go off thinking it’s all too easy;
And leave the subtlest of hints that there is more.
The word ‘Manzil’ implies a destination for sure;
But also just a resting place, a kind of stop-over.
The final goal is not found in ‘near’ or ‘far’, O lover.
(Ramadan 2015)
Task
Beloved its a task I took on, not one forced on me,
To tell suffering humanity, the way it could be;
To put into rhyme, the things you showed my heart.
Its about life and death, not merely a matter of art.
The universe is contained in this little room of mine,
No wonder it reels about unsteadily,with all this wine.
I would put it into better order if I could solve the mystery,
But for now I will shift a thing or two or maybe even three.
O I know to the ear that is filled with cotton wool,
This stuff sound bizarre; of a certainty, not cool.
But this tool of rhyme you gave me, and use it I must,
Hoping to remove from some sympathetic heart its rust.
(Ramadan 2015)
I Blinked
I blinked, and more than forty years slipped away,
I opened my eyes again, my body is elsewhere,
But my heart is in the house where we used to stay.
I can see it, taste it, feel it, live it, and be there.
The dust of time and thousands of daily cares and woes,
Lays thick, but dust can be blown away,
Thick on the book of love it lays - I blow and there it goes!
The pages within - pristine they stay.
I am not talking of vaguely recalled moments,
No, that would be a sad place to linger,
But of the present-past, that to all intents
And purposes, has not gone anywhere.
Maybe it is only now I can really be there,
Over forty years later,
For then my mind was crowded with other
Things, full of clutter.
If you consider well, all of life is water,
But above the water, hovering,
Is an eternal light that is there and ever
Was, revealing everything.
You were perfect then, and now, and every moment,
In between,
The way the moon is tonight, perfect, silent,
And serene.
Dogs bark at the moon, but our road,
It continues to show.
“Not here!” you say (because I slowed),
“Not here”, is not the same as “No”.
Canal
Through the heat of a summer day, a cool river of rationality,
With well defined banks, more a canal I suppose in reality,
Silently and happily flowed; and I felt at ease with the way,
It ignored the flaming fields and from its course did not stray;
As if heaven, in answer to some kind of urgent plea, had sent,
A simple, clear, means to carry one out of the heart’s torment.
The world of study and work and focus on daily things to do,
Is needed by one whose heart wants to find its way to love You;
For Your love is full of hidden ferocity, and to reach Your city,
Life needs an abundance of - let’s call it, succinctly, clarity.
‘Love me little, but love me long’, was advice from beyond I got,
These are words of guidance that should never be forgot.
Tell them...
Tell them a little of what they want to hear,
But season it with a little of what they fear.
Tell them of roses and sweet scented flowers,
Of the smile of the Pirs and shaded arbours;
But include hints of the hardships that precede,
Arriving at the happy place for which they plead.
Its a place of ease that is unimaginably good,
But the road there is through a deep, dark, wood.
Don’t horrify them altogether, with a scary story,
But don’t let them go off thinking it’s all too easy;
And leave the subtlest of hints that there is more.
The word ‘Manzil’ implies a destination for sure;
But also just a resting place, a kind of stop-over.
The goal is not found in ‘near’ or ‘far’, O lover.
The Baleful Tree
On the borders of the unseen world is the tree of insanity,
Oh, so sad to get so close, and yet to stay beneath that tree.
Listen for God’s sake, indeed for the sake of becoming healthy,
To the one who says don’t go and sit under that baleful tree.
There is one thing you can do, if you arrive there willy-nilly,
Go back from that place to a space the mind finds more easy,
Wait there and pray for a guide who can take you beyond it
And with patience and persistence at that one’s feet just sit.
If
If you are reading this when beneath the earth I lie,
Consider as you are now, so once was I,
I had to do deals with the demands of my own clay,
And had to do it every single day.
So look kindly if you will on my remains, such as they are,
This destination for you may not be far.
On the Mercy of my Maker I have had to lean heavily,
Fortunately there is none stronger than He.
If you brought no other flower than the rose of a loving heart,
I will take it that you mean well for your part;
And if the love of the Beloved encloses me now like a shirt,
You will be blessed from visiting this patch of dirt.
Corner-sitters
There is a small corner in my heart,
Where is one who wants to impress;
To say – ‘Hey mum, look no hands,
Come on and applaud my success!”
But there is a corner where is another,
Who wishes deeply to share with you,
The things seen, and things done too.
Not to impress but just because love,
Before its consummated, needs two.
Blown Away
Love, you are going to blow me away!
With writing I will do my best to stay,
On the earth, but hey, hey, hey, I say,
Where is gravity, when its needed!
You took my heart no matter how I pleaded.
I am sorry for those who rely heavily on chemical thugs;
To feel something this good, needs only spiritual hugs.
When from You the wine of love like this is freely flowing,
Why then to any other source should we think of turning.
Claiming
If you get, from anything that I happen to write,
The idea that to claim to be a lover is my right;
Forget it, you have misunderstood what I say,
And from your thought I take immediate flight.
A Love Letter
I wanted to say something very profound to someone,
And to convey eloquently how I felt about that one;
But in my mind only this one word I could I find,
“Love!” I wrote it, hoping that one wouldn't mind.
Lancing the Wound
It hurts of course, when a wound that has long festered,
Is punctured, and its poison, so subtly toxic, is released.
The lancing light that draws impurities the psyche suffered,
Into its self, swirls awhile with images, till they have ceased,
Absorbed by the essence that mother’s milk has delivered.
It hurts, but pain passes away and the organism is so relieved,
That, given the word, the patient their own bed has shouldered,
And carried off to health. No longer by the self to be deceived.