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.

Mind your business!

mind your business

If you have no business,
you will busy yourself minding
everyone else’s business.

-W.E.

This just occurred to me now. The mantra has been repeated before in similar words or meaning to that effect, mostly referring to actual business models but the reason why this just occurred to me was I happened to be minding my own business, just starting the day with a long list of things to do.

I was relatively happy in mood and energetic in nature and in walks a miserable person, the light of day having no bearing on their well being, being above ground no weight on the way they carry themselves, being able to breathe another morning full of early mist not reflective enough to lighten their mood. They were happy to be miserable, literally.

As they walked into the room, they carried with them a foul odour of mood, apparent on their face and without any hesitation, on came the onslaught of foul words and bad character. Like they were walikng the devil on a leash and they dragged him into the room with them.

I couldn’t fathom it. Here I am minding my business, busy doing what I am doing and I’m greeted by this. What did I do to deserve this?

Naturally my ego rose and the only time I let it rise is if someone else is blatantly in the wrong, or someone else is being harmed and I let it rise unrestrained because this was outrageous and needed to be stopped. I am no ones doormat so I told this person in very polite terms to go fuck themselves and get out of the room. Realising the seriousness in my tone and probably the staunchness in my stature, they wisely removed themselves from the room.

I guess, if you have nothing to keep your mind occupied, you have no business of your own to attend to, you will butt yourself into the affairs of others. You’re not stealth enough nor articulate enough to do that. Doing something like that requires tact and skill, meddling into other peoples affairs or deliberately trying to stir a response by agitation is straight up devils work. I feel dirty for even engaging and my mind is just haywire right now.
Way to start a Monday!

Kindness and generosity.

kindness

Give of yourself so graciously that in the

end you efface the receiver and their

tongue speaks  involuntarily,

“You’ve been kind to me”
-W.E.

‘Kindness never touched something except it made it more beautiful and cruelty never touched something except it made it more vulgar.’

Those words are immortal and sadly many of you will never know their origin because of the outrageous picture painted in the media nowadays of a people who are known worldwide by tradition to be the most hospitable and generous. What has culminated now in their modern new age generations are self fulfilling prophecies against their own heritage. They’ve severed themselves from their true history and instead indulge in reinforcing stereotypes of what society and media presents them as.

You will still find cultural pockets of tradition in Morroco, Egyptian deserts, Turkey, Yemen, Jordan and other Bedouin cities where the kindness and generosity will shame you into the above state of expressing gratitude involuntarily.

wpid-tumblr_mn29nzie4c1r6x61do1_500.jpg

You can do many things to Arabs, I mean real, traditional Arabs, the type that know who they are and are tied to all things spiritual and are in love with humankind, not the bogus media pin up boys and girls that are blasted into your retina,  but one thing you cannot do is call them miserly. If you do that, you may as well have killed them!

That is the highest insult for men and women of tradition.

Liar Liar Soul on fire.

soul for sale

 

I won’t lie

I’m like everyone else

My soul is for sale

The highest bidder hasn’t even reached half the reserve
-W.E.

 

Who are we kidding? The right person with the right words, with the right mind, with the right touch for all the wrong reasons and you could be sold for a few pennies.

Let’s be brutally honest and stop regurgitating this cliché. We all have that spot, somewhere or something inside of us that if it is found puts down all our defences.

I have experienced it with the most hostile of souls and the most gentle. Everyone has something about them.

The problem is, the navigators of the human soul have become few and far between.

I’m a rebel without a cause in most of my pursuits.

Authority? I stick a big proverbial in their face.
Law? What law?
Sensitivities of humans? Push me and I’ll tear you down in a heartbeat.
You want to get physical? I’ll hit you seven ways before your anger has fettered to your fists as I’m on my toes all the time.

It’s hard to tell my stubborn ego what to do.
But one look from my teachers and I melt.
They bought me and have me shackled, key thrown away rusted chains to my ankles, anchor me to humility in their presence.

They know how to spear my heart from all vain desires with a line of prose or an anecdote of a master sage.

What did they pay for my capture?

A smile.

I love you teachers.

May God sanctify your secrets.

In loving memory of her, who gave me the lantern niche illumed with oils and lit the flame for me to see the way to him.

Him, who carries the torch with love and forbearance, with patience to my folly until the day where my ego can finally be slain a mighty death on the alter of the masters before me.

Origins

origins

Who is going to deny where we come from now?

Look at this picture.

Look at her face.

The road maps in her face resembling dried cracked crevices of the earth she came from and the earth she will return to.

Glory be to He, who created us and fashioned us with The command Be, and we Were

-WE

Extreme-mist

derwish

I’m an extreme mist of the worst kind,
I’ll pose at one end of the spectrum,
In full sight,
Or a midnight blind.
I’ll fog your thoughts,
Stir the soil to be sewn,
Have you scurrying back and forth,
Rope ends of your mind.
So push me to that end,
Or to the other,
Through the thickness of it all,
Who knows what you’ll find.

Time to hijack the term back from the lazy throws and empty prattling of media musers.

Too long it has been deployed by the mass hysteria-mongering media, abused to stigmatise people.

Words are not theirs to use when they cannot appropriately contextualise them. They are ours.

The word extremist is not evil, not in the correct context or deployment.

Shakespeare is an extremist.
Beethoven is most definitely an extremist.
Einstein an extremist.
Ghandi an extremist.

Any person of worth or merit devotes themselves to an extreme beyond the norm to spring forth greatness and beauty the conformity of society cannot produce collectively in their mediocrity.

-ME

Artists are not drunk enough

intoxicated art

For me, the ability to write only comes in the stillness of the night.
Thoughts, ideas, musings and pondering pass through me during the day.

A word from him, a look from her, a thought from that person expressed through mere presence, my guard is up and I’m on alert and I take notes but I only find the reaping at night when silence prevails, my belly is empty, life forms are otherwise dead and the stillness allows it all to manifest.

Like a bashful girl summoned from behind a veil, some things deserve their own stage.

You must find that place and realise the worlds most noble sages, scholars, writers, artists, musicians and poets all revelled in solitude.

Some may need alcohol to remove these filters and inhibitions, but it will always be a mask, a psychotropic drug that keeps the demons at bay long enough for you to function. But the best of your work will only come when the body is pure, detoxified of material and of ego and ripe with a fertile soil.
-ME