Archive for the ‘Poetry’ category

From ‘The Spy of the Heart’ by Robert Darr

May 7, 2007

  The Meeting of Two Satans

Again the world-devouring wolves met face to face
and plans of darkest treachery they’ve set in place.
Either one of them could teach the very Devil
tricks of treachery, murder, falsity and evil.
Through some new magic they numb the mind;
Instead of peace, give humanity war in kind.
They meet to tell the world that they possess
All that people need, not more and no less.
They say our weapons’ fire will certainly dry
those tears the anguished eyes now cry.
“We must with bullets stitch the wounds,” they say
“to cure the mourning hearts, their pain allay.”
“Well yes we’re wolves but also shepherds tried.
What can the weak do? That flock is terrified.”
They say they’re doctors yet their work is killing;
These devils violate all rights of the ailing.
They’re pleased with any who play the slave,
bitter enemies of any who as free men behave.
They’re at the head of impiety, cruelty, and degeneracy;
They guide the local tyrants and cause their ascendancy.
They’ve no heart, just Satan in the cage of their breasts,
No wonder their every action is from demonic pests.
For the Muslim people, both of them are executioners
Both of them are tricky, they’re divisive trap-setters.

The White House and the Red House

The White House is not the seat of a worthy advisor:
There’s no promise there but evil for men of goodwill.
It is as red as the Kremlin in the blood of people;
It’s a Black House of conspiracy not the White House.
The white and red palaces are palaces of terrible crimes;
Whoever places their hopes in them will find no hope.
The gardener grafting in a marsh of red blood
Shouldn’t hope to pick flowers from weeping willows.
O wayfarer of our tribe, if you’re a real Mujahid,
know this road is not the pure road of the martyr.
Reagan is a Gorbachev with a different face;
Cutting short the words: you don’t need his words.
He will bar you from jihad a hundred times;
The stage cannot be set properly by such a demon.
Look at history: from this old experienced thief
there is only highway robbery, nothing new.
Look into the blood-wet eyes of the orphans
and see a blood-Red Sea that has no shore.
This sea of blood of the faithful of Islam feeds
the killers which are none other than these two ghouls.
O followers of brave Hussein, don’t complain
about one demon to the very leader of demons.
Don’t dress up the shop for any business but God’s;
The blood of the martyrs is not for buying and selling.

Abdul Ahad presented me with this collection of poetry upon my return from northern Afghanistan in 1989. I asked him about the interethnic fighting I had witnessed throughout the north. He too was shocked by this, since it went against all that he believed in.

“These people fighting against other Muslims are committing a very great crime, greater than the crimes of the Marxists,” he lamented. “Because they are Muslims killing Muslims and God has said that He curses such people.”

Abdul Ahad’s ideals were very high and, I think, easy to dash in this power-hungry environment. He would often lament the lack of honesty and integrity in the ranks of the Mujahideen. He admitted openly that many people were taking advantage of the resistance to Soviet and Marxist occupation. Abdul Ahad even seemed a bit suspicious of some of the Mujahideen commanders that I was working with. He asked me what happened to the large sums of money I had taken in with Commander Nurullah’s help to be distributed to internal refugees. I told him more about my recent experiences while traveling to the north of Afghanistan

Avialble online www.spyoftheheart.com the book can also be downloaded from the same website, Sidi Robert Darr has also contrabuted to Seasons Journals an article on the Court of Lions’ in al-Hambra Palace

Advertisements

From C. Biddulph, Afghan Poetry Of The 17th Century: Being Selections from the Poems of Khushal Khan Khattak (London, 1890)

November 7, 2006

As I look on I am amazed

At this worlds denizens,

Just seeing what these dogs will do

To satisfy the flesh.

 

Such dealing as are brought about,

Men being what they are,

Satan himself could not devise,

Still less consider fair.

 

They place before them the Koran,

They read aloud from it,

But of their actions not a one

Conforms with the Koran.

 

In which direction should I go?

Where should I seek for them?

Wise men have now become as rare

As the alchemists stone.

 

Good men are like garnets and rubies,

Not often to be found,

While other common, worthless men,

Like common stones, abound.

 

It may be that in other lands

Good men are to be found

But they are few and far between,

I know, among Afghans.

 

However much he counsels hem

And gives him sound advice,

Not even his own fathers word

Does he consider good.

 

And yet Afghans, in all their deeds,

Are better than the Moguls;

but unanimity they lack,

and there’s is the pity of it.

 

I hear talk of Sultan Baholol,

Also of Sher Shar Sur:

They were Afghans who won renown

As emperors in Hind.

 

For six or seven generations

They ruled in such a way

That all the people were amazed

At their accomplishments.

 

Either they were another kind

Than these Afghans today,

Or else it is by Gods command

That things have reached this pass.

 

I once Afghans acquire the grace

Of unanimity

Aged Khushal will thereupon

Become a youth again.

World Split Apart

August 9, 2006

World Split Apart
by Daniel Abdal Hayy Moore
The façade of a building falls away and
reveals a man praying

A bakery loses its show-window showing a
hundred weddings who’ll have to
wait in the next world for their cakes

An Orthodox cathedral split in two
revealing a solemn baptism that’s now become
more like a drowning

A synagogue smashed like the tablets of Moses
the dust of the Torah continuing to
rise for years through the lunar cycles

A medieval mosque’s minaret struck into rubble
and the muezzin’s call going out bodiless
a hundred times louder

The road rutted with machinegun fire
and ghost cows dancing with their dazzled cowherds

New houses and old houses collapsing like cards
and the surprised furniture giving up their
inhabitants like birds released from their cages

Windows of government buildings falling into streets
revealing some making secret deals and others
receiving holy light for works of self-sacrifice
anonymously accomplished

A firehouse going up in flames and no
nozzle quenching it

A police department getting flattened and no
police whistles piping through the roar of falling plaster

Trees just coming into bud turning as black as
pokers their fruit both present and future
now gracing the fresh tables of the dead

Hillsides turning as black as ash
revealing lairs of tiny mammals
tremblingly shielding their young

This earth sliced apart like a unripe melon
revealing both incandescent fury
and radiant secrets of redemption
incomprehensibly intertwined

No one returning with a happy face at the
end of the day or followed by children like the
Pied Piper to safety beyond the rocks

The soul of man split asunder at the
first crack of unjust death and unjust retaliation

revealing a person naked drenched in
original water coming toward us surrounded by
anticipatory angels anxious for an

outcome already known to Him
who benignly created us

and Whose Voice rises inaudibly
above all other voices

saying over and over
the single word:

Peace

______________________

8/2/06 (from In the Realm of Neither)

http://www.danielmoorepoetry.com/

the laurel returns… ah! merci, Zizou.

July 13, 2006

(copenhagen interpretations) this is a poem on amor fin by troubadour Marcabru. love those folk. they all got killed of too by lecherous church and businessmen. wonder why?

Marcabru?
you’ll not find him
sniffling in the corner, he knows the score,
His lady’s of the good school where
Joy is master.
And when the license is given outright
he always extends himself a mite
more than he has to…For myself I hold no more
with Sir Eble’s theory of trobar
that’s made a stack of foolish decisions
and upholds them against all reason.

But to return to these birds,
despaired of reaching the clouds, and being
by nature fools, they bow
for all (and more than) they’re worth.
And whether or not it’s said amiss,
barons who sell out for cash
have hearts below their umbilicus.

He has his heart below his unwashed navel,
that noble baron
who dirties himself for cash…

Damned blackguards and blockheads, these boobs-gone-bad,
can’t even imitate what their fathers did.
Towns like Cazeres and Sarlouch
you’d say are worth Montpellier? and Toulouse?
I know what deaths their fathers had–
made foe themselves!
And the best of these bushes is an elder.
You can say he would be damned lucky
to look and find among them olive and laurel.

Even the gardner and the trunkey go, flee, eyes
closed, as if wind blew them out.
These later scions have made a villainous swap:
for smock and clogs
they leave fine britches and their cloaks of vair,
there’s nothing to gain from the new locataire.
All that they can raise in way of fire
is my anger!
These willows and elders…
if they weren’t backed up by kings or counts or dukes
they’d be plain vags, roadmen, thieves, con-men…

God aid the valiant who have their price entire,
for these malevolent rich appear as elders–
one reason the world’s a mixed up stupid mess
that grubs
and rots
and vegetates
in its own disease.

Laudator . Temporis . Acti …

He who acts straight as he talks
will not have the same laments as
yeah,
Sir Eglain, that balancing grain-sack.

For myself I hold no more
with Sir Eble’s theory of trobar
that’s made a stack of foolish decisions
and upholds them against all reason.
I say, and’ve said, and will again:
they feed us only rationalization.
Love weeps to be differentiated
from lechery. Plain, it’s plain
that he who whines against Fine Love
‘s a botch. Let him complain
yeah…

Seducers, drunkards, false priests, false
abbots, nuns, the false recluse
will get theirs then, says Marcabru.

For each one has his seat reserved,
Fine Love has promised it will be thus:
great lamentation and gnashing teeth.

O Noble Love, source of all giving,
by whom the whole world is illumined,
I cry mercy!
Keep these whiners from me! and
may I be defended against the fire!
On every side I hold myself your prisoner,
and comforted by you in all things, hope
that you shall be my guide and all my light…

Limosin, Mont Segur, Marseille, the Laurel returns… ah, merci Zizou.

A poem by Maulana, found it among old files

May 26, 2006

message: 2
   Date: Wed, 25 Jun 2003 17:54:16 +0300
   From: "Hanafi Fiqh \(www.sunnipath.com\)" <hanafi@sunnipath.com>
Subject: Rumi: Do Not Despair

Do Not Despair
A Poem By Mawlana Jalal al-Din al-Rumi

Say, do not despair because the Beloved drives you away; if
He drives you away today, will He not call you back tomorrow?

If He shuts the door on you, do not go away; be patient
there, for after patience He will seat you in the place of
honour.

And if He bars against you all ways and passages, He will
show you a secret way, which no man knows.

Is it not the case that when the butcher cuts off the head of
a sheep with his knife, he does not abandon what he has slain,
but first slays, and then draws?
When no more breath remains to the sheep, he fills it with
his own breath; you will see whither God's breath will bring
you!
I spoke this as a parable; else, His generosity slays no man,
rather it rescues him from slaying.

He gives all the kingdom of Solomon to a single ant; He
bestows both worlds, and does not startle a single heart.
My heart has travelled round the world and found none
like Him; whom does He resemble?  Whom does He resem-
ble?

Ah, silence!  For without speech He gives to all of this wine
to taste, He gives to taste, He gives to taste, He gives to taste.
 

— Translation by A. J. Arberry

"Mystical Poems of Rumi 1"

The University of Chicago Press, 1968

Wassalam,

Hadith

May 9, 2006

"What bond is there between me and the world?
I am like a rider on a summer day who takes shelter to rest under the shade of a tree, then goes on his way" 
HADITH

The story of Khalil Moore, with Omair at Macca One

May 8, 2006

http://meccaone.org/audio/18.mp3

The Story of Khalil Moore

I hope I got the words right. Its a poem by Haroon Sellers before he become Muslim, related by Khalil
Aaron (Haroon) Sellers/straight up blues

Another busy day
I can’t find time to pray

I have been awake too long
Temptation pulls me strong

My soul is sick and starved
And my tombstone is being carved

Sin is my surrounding
My Spirit needs some grounding

I know sometimes I stumble
But I don’t wanna crumble

My heart ache can’t be ignored
And I am reaching for my Lord

A natural state of mind
That’s what I need to find

Weak from the attack
Now I am fighting back

Exodus the old
A Genesis the soul

Take me there where I am from
Take me home back to God

I don’t want to read no more
I wanna know for sure

After the Fast

My head is spinning
I don’t know how long it will last

Feeling kind of dizzy
Because of the fast

But I have gotta make it
I have got to take it

Try not to break it
Try not to fake it

Because I believe
I shall receive

What I am looking for
If I break through the door

Again and again, I bow and nod
Humbling myself to the will of God

What I want to know
Might not be shown

But God has keys
To knowledge unknown

I am up for my own
When I make the endeavour

Some say I am stupid
Some say I am clever

Some say I am wasting my time
But their soul is theirs,
My soul is mine