Boring people

boring-people

I’ll never let the monotony of neglect,
lull me into boredom,
persuade me into comfort.

I cannot associate with bored people,
they’re too dishonest to admit,
they’re lazy.

There is always something to do,
a lesson to learn,
a page to read,
a mouth to feed,
a bill to pay,
something to fix.

Fixing myself,
has occupied me,
from the moment I became aware,
of my lowliness.

When my ego stood broad shouldered as I,
cold stared me in the face,
and put up its fists,
I knew boredom,
would become a word that left my vocabulary.

W.E.

smoke and mirrors

smoke-and-mirrors2
I thought about buying a mirror,
nothing fancy,
old, long and slender,
but reflective.

I don’t mind if the edges are chipped,
or if a crack runs through it,
reminds me of myself.

I remember the hours spent in front of it,
a boxer has to stare at themselves for hours on end,
most people become vain when they do so,
not us,
we grow weary,
we see the ugly,
we see the worst of ourselves,
but we don’t wallow there,
we fix it.

We toil with blood and mucous,
acid filling our bones,
muscles imploding with calcium drop after calcium drop,
sweat, stench and metallic tongues,
what a delight, what a treat.

What, you thought we were just made violent?
The act of violence takes a lot of abuse against yourself,
until you don’t recognise a self,
you stop being human,
and start being just a data bank,
with lightening recollection of information,
relevant to the pinnacle of abuse.

So here I am,
stuck at the dichotomy of awareness and neglect,
wondering,
should I buy that mirror,
or, should I pick it up off the side of the road,
and erect it in my garage,
for my son.

Do I want him staring at himself,
do I want him wondering in and out of self abuse?
How does a father reconcile nurture and punishment,
how does a father,
pass on manhood,
and womanhood,
with the same breath,
with the same clenched fist?

How am I to show him,
how to grasp a man’s throat,
and hold dear life between the vice grip of his claws,
recognising the inches it takes before death,
and knowing the look in a man’s eyes,
when their ego is removed,
so as to release your clutch,
and with those same hands tending to roses,
plucking olives from trees,
covering a seedling with enough soil,
for water, breath and light.

How do I do all these things son,
without you looking back,
to blame me for too little or too much?

How do I teach you,
that the purpose of a mirror,
is to stare at yourself long enough,
to see the ugly,
and fix it.

W.E.

Introversion is the new black

introversion-new-black

But where were you all,
when we were stuck inside ourselves,
like discarded books on dusty shelves,
now, all of a sudden,
you won’t judge a book by its cover,
want to get to know us,
inside us delve.

For us it’s not a trend,
not a hash tag,
we’ve been alone, discarded,
convoluted, since twelve.

You know, that age,
when we’re meant to bloom and connect,
we’re ignored,
because we internalise and reflect,
we think and dissect,
we analyse and inspect,
we won’t look outward,
nor deflect,
we find the nuts and bolts of it,
like architects,
build from the inside out,
upwards and erect.

So when you see that timid boy,
or that hidden girl,
spare a moment to reflect,
about their world,
before that insult,
before the stigma,
you carelessly hurl,
because one day you’d realise,
through all that time alone,
all that time inside,
they’ve been whipping up their character,
fortifying their soul,
and waiting for the time,
to reveal their pearls.

W.E.

If you’re not one, don’t fake it, we can see you a mile away.

Dear feminism

uzo6

I was wondering where in your confines,
my wife’s spirituality fits,
where her chastity sits,
if at all within your boundaries,
can her need to be free from men and women,
she can exist.

Will her devotion,
you permit,
will her night vigils and devotions,
you allow to be moonlit,
what of her veil, her shroud,
or is it attire you’d omit?

Ahh, her feminism,
for you stops at her outfit,
for you, even for her, unfit.

A word of her spirituality,
she can’t transmit.

Nay, your feminism,
is laced with prejudice,
and is pseudo-liberation,
white only, Holy writ.

-Wesam El dahabi

#justcurious as to how inclusive your mantras are,
if a woman content in her devotions,
liberated in her submission,
to her creator her orientation,
in complete volition,
has a divine addiction,
and is enshrined in her tradition,
she chooses to be abandoned,
from your pop culture couture versions,
devotes to her husband through choice,
would she still be deemed a free woman,
even though neither her husband,
her son, her father or brother has reigns over her,
would you still hold her and embrace her as woman as you?

Believe it or not,
not everyone wants your version.
So don’t be surprised if POC have aversions.

Image by david uzochukwu

skyward hand

sufi-beggar

Where is that beggar I used to see,
this street is lonely without his upward hand,
his smile, his well wishes,
blown away,
like a dervish in the sand.

My mock, my wit,
won’t avail, with time conspiring against me,
his prayer, his litany,
might be the only thing that avails me.

How oft we tread on hallow ground,
but aloof with our eyes towards the sky,
it’s not heaven were looking towards,
but the mountain of grandeur,
we’re so accustomed to tell ourselves lies.

Whilst there on the floor,
my beggar friend sits,
aware of all that is above him,
and I, in ignorance,
took him for a peasant,
without noticing he was a king.

Sufi literature is heavy with example,
with history of princes, kings and queens,
abandoning their position,
donning the garb of a beggar,
because they were afflicted with the unseen.

And here I am,
sound faculty of mind,
intellectualising all that I know,
when what I should have been doing,
is walking to divinity,
and like the dervish,
with wind and sand,
allow myself to be blown.

W.E.

There is a beggar who usually frequents a mosque I pray at. I never see him inside, always outside, waiting to ask someone for a dollar or two.

It’s usually at noon prayer that I find myself in the midst of hustle and bustle,
fleeing from the noise to the sanctuary of silence hidden in crevices of the city, in this little mosque, unknown to most of the outside world.

Perhaps, by the sincerity of the peaceful folk that frequent there, God has veiled it from preying eyes, and left it for crying eyes, and praying hearts, perhaps God has shrouded the hearts of the non-followers with veils of peace, or indifference but this iron barred solace, remains unscathed, in a time and place where it doesn’t belong.

He waits, he knows, he remembers the ones that place money in his palm.

My teachers always taught me, never to refuse the palm of a beggar, to assume it is God himself asking, perhaps through a medium, perhaps to test me, to see if I am really devoted to Him, to see if I truly believe ‘to Him I belong and to Him I return’, everything is in His dominion, all of wealth and all of poverty. All of it, His, and perhaps this is my litmus, the trial of me, the Jihad, that I must undertake against my wretched soul.

My teachers were never ones for small talk, they made sure they drove home the message with utter clarity and that it laid in a bath of conviction in my heart.

With this in mind, I’d always give this man something. He was always grateful.

I don’t know what overcame me, perhaps annoyance, perhaps arrogance, perhaps the devil in me, I don’t know but the last time I saw him, I grew annoyed, I pestered him when he approached me. I asked why he was lying to me. He told me a very tall tale as to why he needed money.

I dislike lying and grow agitated and extremely angry when lied to, and perhaps I used this as an excuse to justify my pestering him. I was never not going to give him something, but I pestered him and asked him why he was lying to me and that I would give him what he wanted if he just didn’t lie, Muslims are not meant to lie, it is considered of the utmost of major sins.

He kept saying ‘ok, ok, I’ve got schizophrenia, I’m here to see the doctor’. (it was a public holiday). I still didn’t believe him, nevertheless I gave as I usually do and as usual he was thankful and left as I went inside to pray.

It’s been a couple of weeks and I haven’t seen him at all. Today, I grew sad walking towards the mosque, wondering what happened to him. I grew annoyed with myself and anxious, I wanted to punch myself and as I thought of being a failure, at letting my fat ego get in the way, my bloated mind, my obese yapping heart, I felt bruised all over.

That feeling I got when I lost a fight I could have easily won. Lips busted, shins busted, knuckles making holding a spoon near impossible and a jaw you can only drink fluids through, I felt battered.

I hoped nothing had happened to him, and I wanted nothing more than to see his hand outstretched, his teeth broken and rotting through and to hear his Afghani accent, soft and inviting, like he was the one calling me to a banquet, into his home, the gesture of asking, a metaphor of God inviting, and there I was analysing the invitation card, forgetting I have been summoned to a meal with my creator.

I have never felt such shame, ever, and after all this, I wondered still yet, if perhaps I am just so conscious now of what had transpired and only wanted the soft cushion for myself, out of again another hidden trap within my ego, to assure myself that I was generous, like as if I own anything, like as if it is mine to give in the first place. Perhaps I just wanted to avoid the punishment I was ready to fledge myself with. I don’t know.

I do know, I still wish his hand was there, so I could place something in it without him even asking.

W.E.

balance

balanceCowardice,
has subconsciously become the default,
men and women overwhelmed,paralysed,
submerged in laxity, passiveness and gluttony,
too busy being fed the lie that they matter,
and all that matters is taking care of themselves,
putting themselves first,
and thus they grow,
age, and un-mature,
yes, UN -Mature,
candles flickering barely keeping a semblance of light inside them,
and never develop the character and spine it takes to help others.

Cowardice comes from never being vulnerable,
cowardice comes from believing your own hype,
never taking one on the chin,
just to see what it feels like.

Both the warrior who won’t engage his soul,
and the sage who won’t engage his sinew,
are complimentary cowards,
bathing in faux austerity of  character.

W.E.