First Night of Ramadan

EID CARD 2007

 

A single stone is thrown in

and the canyon resounds with the

hallelujahs of angels

A single breath contains the
known and unknown universes

Back behind edgeless
space are motions that

vibrate the heart

Back behind ancient mountains and
historical intricacies

a shadow gives way to Light that has a
door in it to

let us through

We take no step that
doesn’t bring us nearer

One sip and the oceans disappear

One glance and the skies
bend closer to hear our

emptiness

One heart-wrench elegant elevation
and we’re on a

plateau tossing a stone in the dark
that never stops echoing
__________________________
8/1/2011
1 Ramadan, 1432
(from Ramadan is Burnished Sunlight, Ecstatic Exchange, 2011)

Posted in ABDAL-HAYY'S POETRY, ETERNITY, ISLAM/SUFISM, Muslim Poetry, POEMS, POETRY, Ramadan Poetry, signs of allah, Sufi Poetry, The Path, The Soul | 5 Comments

Poem: Great Cruelty and Heartlessness

CIRCUS FIRE

 

We’re living in a time of great cruelty and heartlessness

where instead of a sun they’re throwing up
anvils

Instead of sunlight there’s the sound of
hammers beating

Instead of walking there’s kicking

Instead of thinking there’s talking

It’s almost as if there’ve never been times like
these before

Even shadows thrown by cartwheels on dirt roads
resemble the grimaces of armies as they
slide across rocks

In the palaces of power clocks go off but no one
wakes

Decisions are made by pouring acid down drains
or waiting for nightfall in a room lit by
neon tubes

If anyone speaks all eyes are upon them

I saw a sparrow fly over a fence

An ant stop and not go on

But laughter has turned to pebbles
falling on zinc

And children have been torn from their futures

____________________________________________________________

7/19/2006 (from In the Realm of Neither, Ecstatic Exchange, 2008)

Posted in ABDAL-HAYY'S POETRY, dead children, ISLAM/SUFISM, POEMS, POETRY, Sufi Poetry | Tagged | 6 Comments

THE PATH

Salt Prayers Collage

You start early
you’re nobody’s fool

You set out on foot
no snow will stop you

Shapes in the mist
statues of warriors

Arms raised and weapons

You’re undaunted
no footprints before you

You make your way

Wolf howls echo
Breath becomes audible

suddenly interior
You’re walking inwardly

Sounds of footfalls
You’re in the immaterial

A realm opens before you
traversed by saints before you

Now the way is clearer
though deep obscurity reigns

A landscape becomes sharper
deep colors appear

Rich greens and bright blues
echoes resounding around you

A path like glass or amber
cuts through the night like a flare

The black background of space dazzles
with its uncanny plethora of stars

Your heart’s a steady beacon
your forehead’s an unwavering beam

It’s not where you’re going that’s wonderful
but the glory of where you are

No light can compare with this brilliance
nor description match its beauty

A magnificent wanderer’s become you
breathless in a place of wonder

Who’s coming towards you in silence?
Who are these walking with you?

It’s not that their faces are obscured
their sheer radiance is blinding

A voice is actually calling you
A sound of clopping horse hooves

You’re in a valley of light

Shapes of things are their meanings
speaking into the ears of your heart

suspended invisibly in space

in which knowledges are constantly pouring
inexpressible on human lips

understood in the land of this dwelling
before and after words are spoken

As the sky’s planets shimmer their rainbows
and swirl their borealis glows

The dimensions open even further
as if flowers bloomed backwards into being

Words are gone and
God’s Presence mingles

What was thought is true
His embrace surrounds you

The impalpable becomes palpable
the conceived inconceivable

Crows fly in a blue sky
Yellow fields roll forward

What’s before you is behind you
collapsing all around you

Who comes towards you is
for you alone

for your safe invitation
to leave it all behind you

each moment before you
from the tip of you to the soul of you

moving ever within you
each step ringing true

each gesture a worthy one
each silence a vocabulary

of unimpeachable significance
the air parting around you

The way forward abounding
nothing left of barriers

that really never existed
nothing left but to be

in the constant company
of companions of sublimity

as simple as a rooster
crowing the dawns awake

all life’s light converging
just as it’s dispersing

to its place of purest origin
in the golden curve of His Hands

suspended just as our hearts are
in this life-extinguishing air

our houses all dissolving
into their constituent atoms

our relationships all dissolving
into their innermost resonances

We’re going ahead now without them
their cloaks whirl away completely

It’s a sound of rushing water
over rocks made slippery by time

Who’s there can’t be named as alive
but never before as alive as now

This is what living was made for
this vivid incomparable sweetness

raining incessantly inside you
no further fire can extinguish it

imprinted as firmly on your heart
as when you were first conceived

This splendor more splendid than
silvery skies

stretched out on every horizon
this shapeless shape that awaits you

now that you’ve passed beyond
imprecation

to be called back to anything lesser
as indelible as your veins turned

inside-out in the next world
vividly present in this one

standing on the road you began on
even before you set out

morning birds in the silence
crickets quiet in daylight

Your sudden presence multiplied
into one beating heart in silence

not yours alone in time
but God’s invisibly

whispering

_______________________
(from The Soul’s Home, 2013, soon to be published)

 

Posted in ABDAL-HAYY'S POETRY, amazement, ETERNITY, fana fillah, ISLAM/SUFISM, Light, Love, Love of God, Miracles, Muslim Poetry, POEMS, POETRY, Prayer, saints, signs of allah, Silence, Sufi Poetry, The Essence, The Path, The Soul | Leave a comment

OF MY MOTHER, 92, WITH ALZHEIMERS

 inez-mae-moore-small 01

1

I hate to think she may no longer dream of me.

She lies on her couch and stares at the ceiling
like a bird. Blinks and keeps
staring. Her arthritic fingers like bird claws.
But her face also reminds me of a cat’s,
looking completely with seemingly unseeing
eyes. Then comprehending. Then
not comprehending. Her

frail, cold form, cheeks sunken, hair so usually
carefully kempt, now spreading out white and
lank and long behind her head on the
pillow, hair I’d never seen not in some
beauty shop cut, now left to
nature, oblivious to fashion. Ancient.
Crone hair. Mother, my dear affectionate
mother, a crone. But a

sweet crone. “Should I be here? Is this
where I’m supposed to be?”

Blinks. Recognizes. Loses the
thread.
There on her perch in a kind of
silvery nowhere. Who

took me downtown to the movies, by bus, later by
car, who dressed me warmly, snapping the
leather strap of my
cap under my chin, who
took me across the Bay Bridge to
San Francisco on the train (the span under the
automobile level above), and I

remember so pungently the smell of the
Hills Brother Coffee factory on the
San Francisco side, and the
coffee cup up-tilted ecstatic
Arab in yellow robe and white turban bigger than
life on the billboard. That was my

mother who took me there, who tilted her
head and smiled, and flirted, and hated her
round gray mother for flirting, and she even

now flirts on the bed, face up at me, winking,

frowning, opening eyes wide, pulling down her
mouth, then smiling that heartbreaking

mother’s smile. My

mother’s smile.

2

The Prophet Muhammad said Paradise lies at the
feet of mothers, and I
know it’s true.
My mother lies there with
Paradise at her feet, frail feet now in
soft moccasins, barely able to get her to the
bathroom with her aluminum walker for support,
her thin blue-scribbled legs, whiter than paper,
yet Paradise is there. She

spoon-fed me. That’s the
fountains of Paradise. She
held me close, that’s the
affection of Paradise, and worried herself to
death about me, and had the
dread despair, and was so

glad when I called, and looked into my
face now long and hard and
put her arms around my
neck with extraordinary almost vicelike
grip to kiss me, and though her

kiss, so dry, so cold, lips weathered, was
the kiss of death, on me and on her, it was the
kiss of life, a mother’s kiss, which is the

endlessly flowing rivers of Paradise with a
supernatural light flickering along their ripples,
and the air of Paradise is the mother’s atmosphere,

where she walks, where she
lies stretched out now, hands plucking a
coverlet, veiled eyes fastened on the
ceiling, already more in

Paradise than here. O God, may You

take her there!

3

Silver-haired Siberian mothers!

Hoolah!

Stalking snow-deer, a bone clenched between their teeth,
silver eyes clenched against
storm, determined to get there!

Hoobah!

Natural Wisconsin mothers on cow farms in denim
skirts and boots of rough leather, rope
burns on hands, faces of raw cow milk,
cheeks of burnt straw, eyes of hot
water!

Ooyah!

Moccasin mothers against high winds putting
feather skin capes over moon-faced papooses,
cowering in teepee dark, hearts beating deep,

Cachaw!

Mothers in circle making quilt, toothless,
once-beautiful, lissome,
nimble-fingered, breasts bone, breasts now
dry as bone,
lonesome in their plenitude,

Bashah!

Mothers and more mothers, floating horizontal, head to
toe, great rings of them revolving
around the globe!

Hooshah!

Mothers everywhere!

Living in wood crates on Chinese docks,
palaces with carpets five inches thick,
high rises, tenements,
the projects, the dumps, scrounging supermarket
tips, dipping croissants in
thick cream in outdoor Parisian cafés to feed their
young, birds in the air, mouse mothers in
holes, my mother in

California waiting patiently for death.

“Should I be here? Where
should I be? Is this all right? What
are you going to do now?”

“I’m just going to sit with you for a while,
mom. I’m just going to
hang out with you for awhile.”

“OK.”

__________________________________
4/1/98 (from You Open a Door and it’s a Starry Night, Ecstatic Exchange, 2009)

 

Posted in ABDAL-HAYY'S POETRY, Muslim Poetry, POEMS, POETRY, Sufi Poetry | Tagged | 1 Comment

HE COMES RUNNING

Image

(Note: A new chapbook of poems written in Turkey recently, in pocket size format,
during sohbets (talks) given by a saintly teacher, my zone listening to the Turkish
producing these amiable meditations. Calligraphies punctuate the poems, by great
Chinese calligrapher, Haji Noor Deen. Available now from the printer:
http://www.lulu.com/shop/daniel-abdal-hayy-moore/he-comes-running-poems/paperback/product-21486183.html. There’s also a preview on the
printer’s page.)

Three poems:

11

At the dawn call to prayer from
the nearby lovely spindly-minareted
mosque crossing adhans from other
minarets by loudspeakers all the
dogs near and far begin to yip and
howl and bark in chorus as well

Are they Satan’s dogs howling in
disrespect to keep the believers
away or are they God’s dogs
joyously celebrating the calls
and joining in annunciatory glee

extending the call to the dog
world and any other sleepy
canines within the ears’ both
short and triangular or long and floppy
compass of sound?

12

There were chickens and geese
and strange pointy goose-tongues as
they hacked their greetings or
admonitions at us through the
fence

Then later sheep and straggly
odorless rose bushes and a
bright orange flower with
sheep in the distance

A bare and barren landscape
with dry grasses rough hedges and
bluish mountains in the distance
that Van Gogh with bamboo pens
and sepia and India ink could
bring to vibrant life with quick
stipple strokes and a thousand
heartfelt dots

13

While awaiting the king’s arrival
seventy foals were born in
a barn filled with illuminated
straw

Three cities submitted to a very
short tyrant’s army because of
the size of the brass buttons on
their uniforms

Hair and nails got longer and the
seasons changed

Little by little a fair outline of the
king emerged and some said
they saw it between the forest
trees and others that they ate
with it just after dawn

Maybe the king was already
with us all along

Posted in ISLAM/SUFISM, Light, Muslim Poetry, POEMS, POETRY, Sufi Poetry | 1 Comment

LITTLE BLACK FLY ON THE WALL

light

The little black fly on the wall doesn’t stop to
think what he knows, those
multiple eyes are enough. God’s
sight through them shows him the world.

Birds don’t think, “Fly or soar as I
      might, I’m only a bird in a
         bird’s world, one
      eye on each side of my head, my
            limited universe not
                 enough!”

The worm in the sod blind as
death, pushing through darkness it may not
see, does it think
“I wish I could stand
on two legs in a drawing room and sip
tea as I listen to someone
     at a spinet play Mozart”?

Enclosed in the world, we enclose the world, and
it’s enclosed inside us until
we open. We’ll bump into
every wall until we

go from world to
Creator of world, Who’s
given us our world apparatus and sensitive
contraption for grasping the world, and
if we sight along His
cross-hairs in the

Unseen we should
see Him originating this
display.

He who
creates us as we
go.

Fly, bird and worm, and
man, hearts on the
optical throne.

Light
filling us to the brim.

In which to
see Him.
________________________
(from Miracle Songs for the Millennium, 1996, being edited for publication)

Posted in ABDAL-HAYY'S POETRY, amazement, ETERNITY, Light, Muslim Poetry, POEMS, POETRY, signs of allah, Sufi Poetry, The Path, The Soul | 2 Comments

Mawlid in New Brunswick, NJ, this past Friday, alhamdulillah…

Salaama

Here’s a video snippet of the singing during the New Brunswick Mawlid I participated in. I’m the left hand corner squinting at the text… the singing was so reminiscent of mawlids in Morocco due to the fine leadership of Shadee Elmasry (in white burnoose), head of the Center there… It’s not the best fidelity nor the most ecstatic moment… but a taste… with a few hundred folk out of camera shot… 

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v=10151821222077191

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