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Showing posts with label healing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label healing. Show all posts

Saturday, March 22, 2014

The Sacrifice

The blade of Yezid has pierced me and I
Clung to the robes of Ali

There was no place in the world to shelter
Our likes

No voice in the courtroom
To give witness

The hordes of Karbala descended upon us
And left us to dry in the sun

Violence and falsehood would prevail
And the men of God would ever fall, ever fall
Ever to their entrapment
They would fall

They were strong
And worthy! They were worthy

Goodness their only and fatal
Weakness

And like Samson to Delilah
They would willingly
Even desirously
Give themselves as a sacrifice

Perhaps if enough of their blood was spilt
The thirst of the world would be quenched

If enough of their bodies were slaughtered
Its hunger would likewise be filled

And righteousness return to the people
Like silence to a crying infant

Then take me by the ropes and lead me to the tent
There he awaits me

Oh Imam of the Imams!
Grant your slave the strength
To face his blade
To face his blade

I approach him gently, if not shyly
His eyes are delighted
And his hand is sure

Speak the name of God in my ears
Embrace me strongly
Like a father
And open the vein with your blade
Let my life now flow into the earth
It came from the earth
And now it returns
Now I cannot stand, I am going
Let me lay on the ground to rest

The blade of Yezid has pierced me and I
Am strewn as a feast for his guests



(The poem uses references which those unfamiliar with certain elements of Islam will not grasp. Lay explanation is provided.)

Ali, Yezid and the Karbala: A story from the “early church” of Islam. Ali was the nephew and son-in-law of the Prophet, and, some say, the rightful heir to leadership of Islam. The problem was that Islam was not only a sweeping spiritual revival, it also accomplished a near impossible socio-political feat—it united the tribes of Arabia. And in that unity, everyone knew, was power, power enough to overthrow the great empires of the day (Byzantium and Persia, which it did). People who had initially resisted the Prophet (in his days of poverty) now posed as fervent followers, realizing the immense psychological power they could tap by using religious rhetoric. They maneuvered, around and over many sincere followers of the Prophet, for a place of prominence in this young movement, or, more importantly, this budding empire. Ali, apparently incapable of the vicious manipulation which his opponents employed, eventually lost power and was assassinated as he led the morning prayers. His conniving political opponent had an even more conniving son, Yezid, who is passionately remembered by all Muslims. Yezid’s continued clash with the bothersome line of Ali led to the massacre of Karbala. Karbala, a desert region in Iraq marks the place where Yezid’s troops intercepted the caravan of Hussain (Ali’s son) and all his extended family. They held them hostage for a time, depriving them of water, and then killed them. Karbala is analogous to Calvary in Christianity, and arouses similar sentiments in many Muslims as the suffering of Christ arouses in many Christians (albeit they do not consider it a source of spiritual salvation). The writer proposes that the essences of Ali and Yezid both pre-date the actual historical figures, and endure past their lifetimes until today in all spheres of society. Religion, politics, economy,  business, science, art, anywhere you look you will find those with transcendental aims who consequently appear naive, and are massacred (literally or figuratively) by those with egotistic aims but who are more eager and willing to play power games. He at once mourns and takes courage in the struggle of Ali and his descendants, and here he finds meaning to the injustices of the greater world as well as his own world.

Imam of the Imams: Imam, meaning “the one who stands before”, can be used for the pastoral figure in an Islamic community. It is also used by some to refer to Ali and 11 of his descendants who guided the community in its early years. It is used in the latter sense here. The writer calls on Ali in the moment before his death, as Christ called on “Eli” in the moment before his. There is a suspicion than an uncanny pre-surgence and resurgence of certain great spiritual figures has been taking place (e.g. Abraham, Moses, Elijah, Christ, the Prophet, Ali); meaning that they appeared and interacted with the faithful both before and after their earthly lives.


The ropes, the tent, the Name of God, and the opening of the vein: Alludes to the ritual slaughter of the animal on the occasion of Eid ul Azha, the Islamic feast of sacrifice. The feast celebrates the substitution of a sheep which God made for Abraham as he was about to kill his beloved son. The suggestion the writer makes is that justice has a way of constantly running into deadlocks, and this calls for acts of counter-justice such as bailing, atonement, redemption, intercession, mercy, forgiveness etc., to undo the knots. A person who offers themselves knowingly and willingly as the sacrificial animal commits such an act of counter-justice. Only in the most extreme cases does it actually involve death. Usually it involves the willingness to offer oneself as an object upon which others can thrust hateful, angry or frustrated projections which they have not been able to resolve or express otherwise. The one on whom they project has done nothing wrong to them, but he allows them to use him as this “substitute”.

Thursday, September 12, 2013

Ransom

They said to gather material wealth
But it all seemed to vanish so quickly?

They said to accrue sums of knowledge
But no sooner it grew obsolete?

They said to acquire bodily beauty
But the body was eternally withering?

They said to pursue fame, acclaim
But the people were first to forget?

They said to find acceptance and love
To be given and taken on whim?

Then spoke one who had been quiet throughout
Find the wealth of the self, he said
All else will be lost to time and event
But when will you be without your self?

Money, mind, body, repute
All bandits
Waylaying the pilgrim
Holding him hostage

And all the while
He had the ransom inside
He just didn't know

Thursday, May 23, 2013

To Fly

The moment when the impossible becomes possible
It is not enough just to say it
You must have the touch
To lay naught more than a finger on that thing called impossible
And watch it transform itself

Not a task accomplished by words or intellect
Not by thought or reason
It's in the touch

Christ said "What is easier, to say? 'Thy sins are forgiven thee'
Or 'take up thy bed and walk'?"
Then said both
Did both

Which was easier, the outer miracle or the inner?
The inner? It can't be proven.
The outer? Visible, but superficial.
Soon there will be a leg-healing device
But when will we get a forgiveness machine?

Which is easier?
To part the waters of the Red Sea?
Or to change the heart of Pharaoh?
Engineers can part those same waters
But where is the heart-changing tech?

Which is easier?
To walk on water?
Or to cast out demons?
Man walks on air these days
But still is not free of his demons

The visible is applauded
But it is the invisible that lasts

It is when the touch of the finger
And the gaze of the eye
Cause the material to dematerialize
And the real to un-realize

At that moment a wingless creature takes flight
That great and boundless entity
The soul
Possesses the body
Faith possesses the reason

Don't try it through effort, labor
No amount of positive brainwashing will do

It's all in the touch
When one touches
And is touched--simultaneously
And with the touch they are touched with
They reach forth

Sunday, March 31, 2013

I Must Not Let Him Pass Me By


I must not let him pass me by
I am weak and the sun is so harsh
The crowds are so pressed, but still I must not
I cannot let him pass me by

My face is pale, my vision blurs
my head is sick and spinning
My hands sweat cold, but I must go on
I cannot let him pass me by

One foot in front of the other I place
one stumbling step at a time
But this is my chance, my only chance
I cannot let Him pass me by

I’m coming close, but the closer I come
the crowds push and throng all the more
They scream and tear me from the path I have set
I cannot let him pass me by

The hands are violent, crude and rough,
they come from every which side
They grab me and push, my strength will give way
I will fall like grass before the scythe
I will meet my end, surely I will
‘neath the feet of this cruel crowd
But as long as I can, I must go on
I cannot let him pass me by.

So long have I been afflicted
so long in this gauntlet of ails
Nothing has worked, if I die here amidst
the embrace of this vulgar crowd
Better than dying alone, my dear
than dying in the bed of regret
I have no other choice, to reach him or try
to not would be death just the same

He’s coming near, I see his face
I see his sweaty brow
Now is my chance, the last of my hope
I need not more than a touch

His hands are too holy for one filthy as I
I do not deserve to hold
His eyes too bright for my darkness
I do not deserve to look
His feet too pure for my mouth to approach
I do not deserve to kiss

But his garment, just the hem that drags on the ground
surely this could not be wrong
As lowly as I am, as despised as disgraced
just the hem, please find in me no fault
For I like that hem, have been dragged in the dust
soiled and threadbare and torn
I am the hem of the garment of the world
so let me now touch what is mine

My hand reaches out, but I am thrown to the ground
and the crowd begins its mad trample
Still my hand reaches, over miles it seems
of bare and hot dusty road
Only the hem, only the hem
as I stretch every bone toward that figure

Hundreds and hundreds of hurried sandals
beat me into the ground
But all that I see is my hand reaching forth
for that hem, for that hem, for that hem!

And then I lay hold, and I wish you could feel it
like a pilgrim who at last sights the shrine
I grasp it with much more than merely my hand
with my heart, with my soul, with my mind
My whole body grasps with all that it has
to that piece of rough woven twine

And then comes the flow, the virtuous flow
a rushing and tingling peace
It sweeps my body like a torrent of strength
burning, cleansing my frame
So strong is this feeling I finally let go
as it sweeps every nerve every vein
From the tip of my hands, to the tip of my feet
I shudder again and again

The tears fill my eyes, and wonder my heart
as I lie still prostrate on the ground
I do not notice the crowd’s eerie hush
and the feet that before me do part,
But soon I’m aware of the presence that stands
and gazes upon me with love
None other knows what between us has passed
save me and the one in my eyes

The people are puzzled as they see him draw near
and stoop before my wounded hands
Slowly and crouching I sit myself up
but carry my head ever low
My eyes wander round the foot trodden sand
ever avoiding his gaze

“Was it you who touched me?” says the gentlest voice
“Yes,” I slowly reply
I don’t know if I’m wrong, I don’t know if I’m right
but this miracle? How can I deny?
“Daughter” he answers and touches my face
And the touch calms my innermost fears
“Your faith has saved you, now go in peace
and may you be every whit whole”

The tears again flow down my bruised beaten face
as it lingers in that tender hand
I kiss it and thank him in sob muffled cries
I pour out my gratitude full heart
And then with a smile as warm as can be
he lifts up himself and he goes,
But his presence within lingers on still
the part of himself left in me

And soon I’m alone, the throng is all gone
alone on the side of the street
Reliving, reliving the magic exchange
that until today touches my life
I cannot explain what happened that day
only that one weak was made whole
One with whose last strength stretched out her hand
and was washed and delivered and redeemed

I sat for a long time on that street’s crumbly edge
before I could make my way home
I stumbled along, this time with relief
like walking through hills in a dream

Oh what a wonder, oh what a miracle,
I found in his hem that blest day
That even the unworthy, the downtrodden, the scorned
can reach for that garb and be saved
And though I returned dirty and bruised
my soul would ever rejoice
In this day that I sought him and reached for that hem
this day that I strove for his grace
I will ever be grateful for his mercy divine
this day he did not pass me by