OPENING THE EYE OF THE HEARTRumi Center for Spirituality and the Arts Presents

Poetry Anthology from the Inaugural Workshop

with an introduction by Baraka Blue

Opening the Eye of the Heart:Poetry Anthology from the Inaugural Workshop

with an introduction by Baraka Blue

Sha’ban 1439 - April/May 2018

Workshop taught by Baraka Blue and organized by Rumi Center for Spirituality and the Arts

Opening the Eye of the Heart: Poetry Anthology from the Inaugural Workshop Copyright © 2018 for each poem belongs to its respective author. Introduction copyright © 2018 belongs to Baraka Blue. Copyright © 2018 for this compilation collectively belongs to the authors and Rumi Center for Spirituality and the Arts. Online PDF edition of this book is free for download and distribution strictly without monetary gain.

Compiled by j. Maryam Mathieu Edited by j. Maryam Mathieu, Efemeral, Ray Lacina, and Pam Martin

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For quotes longer than critical articles and reviews, contact the respective author (contact information found under ‘Biographies’). For information, contact Rumi Center for Spirituality and the Arts.

First edition compiled 2018 by Rumi Center for Spirituality and the Arts.1919 Market St. Suite 101 Oakland, CA 94607

rumicenter.bigcartel.combarakablue.com

Dedication

Dedicated to the Muslim mystic heart tribe of artists, poets, dreamers, lovers, and visionaries around the world and throughout time. May we find each other in this life,

and may we be neighbors in Paradise, by the Mercy of Allah subhanahu wa ta’ala. Amin!

We sincerely thank you for reading.

Acknowledgments

The Prophet, peace and blessings be upon him, said, “He has not thanked Allah who has not thanked people.”

Our deepest appreciation to Rumi Center for Spirituality and the Arts for developing the first iteration of this workshop and to our teacher Baraka Blue for helping instill in us writing as spir-itual, contemplative practice. Our appreciation as well to Ångelique Monaé and Ifrah Magan for the behind-the-scenes leadership and hard work to bring this workshop to fruition. Finally, thank you to every student without whom the generous, loving suhbah of our class would not have been possible.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Introduction by Baraka Blue...................................................................................................Week I: The Heart’s Language: Words, Images and Imagination........................................... Lost Tribe by Nile Mystic............................................................................................ Release by Pam Martin................................................................................................ Sway by Wajiha Khalil................................................................................................. I Love You by Abbas Mohamed................................................................................... The Secret of the Rose by j. Maryam Mathieu............................................................ ironing @ home by Maryam Seipp.............................................................................. Waiting for the Spider to Return by Skip Maselli....................................................... Promise by j. Maryam Mathieu................................................................................... Connecting with Mother Earth by Maryam Seipp...................................................... The Travels of Rashid by Skip Maselli........................................................................ Urban Mawlids by Wajiha Khalil................................................................................ Next Generation Teachings by Pam Martin................................................................. Ones and Zeroes by Asim Memon............................................................................... Our First Language by Rashida James-Saadiya......................................................... Coffee Prayers by Efemeral......................................................................................... Rise by Amanda Chanda.............................................................................................. Why did you turn away? by Asim Memon.................................................................. They Say There Is a Tree by Baraka Blue...................................................................Week II: A Universe Of Meaning: The Sacred Nostalgia........................................................ Ṭala‘a ‘l-Badru ‘alaynā (The Full Moon Rose Over Us) by Efemeral....................... Day 9 Poem by Logan David Siler.............................................................................. Under the Wide Swallowing Sky by Ray Lacina.......................................................... Shukr bil-Lisan (Thankfulness of the Tongue) by Rashida James-Saadiya................. I Found Myself by Maryam Seipp............................................................................... Autumn by Maryam Seipp........................................................................................... Day 10 Poem by Logan David Siler............................................................................ The City by Zulaikha South......................................................................................... Day 12 - Poem 1 by Logan David Siler....................................................................... Day 12 - Poem 2 by Logan David Siler....................................................................... Murmur by Zulaikha South.......................................................................................... Tajalli by Wajiha Khalil............................................................................................... Prayer for Return by Abbas Mohamed........................................................................ Ya Lateefu Ya Wadud by Abbas Mohamed................................................................... Write about God and this Love by Skip Maselli.......................................................... The Dream of Drafts by Ray Lacina...........................................................................Week III: The Divine Mirror: Nature & the Names................................................................ Muftaḥ al-maḍbakh (Key to the Kitchen) by Efemeral................................................ Floodgates Open by Pam Martin................................................................................. Here by Pam Martin..................................................................................................... Al-Ba’ith by Ray Lacina.............................................................................................. Heirloom by Rashida James-Saadiya.......................................................................... Love by Maryam Seipp................................................................................................ The River by Zulaikha South....................................................................................... Mystic Laughter by Wajiha Khalil............................................................................... Submission by Abbas Mohamed.................................................................................. Thirst by Abbas Mohamed...........................................................................................

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Oh, Cottonwood Tree by j. Maryam Mathieu.............................................................. Untitled by Logan David Siler..................................................................................... The Gentle by j. Maryam Mathieu............................................................................... Human Beings by Abbas Mohamed............................................................................ She Holds Behind the Curtain by Ray Lacina............................................................. Day 16 Poem by Logan David Siler............................................................................Week IV: The Beloved & Beyond .......................................................................................... After the Breaking by Ray Lacina................................................................................ Khamsah by Rashida James-Saadiya........................................................................... Silence by Maryam Seipp............................................................................................ Boy by Ray Lacina....................................................................................................... Day 22 Poem by Logan David Siler............................................................................ Roses by Maryam Seipp.............................................................................................. I Seek You by Maryam Seipp....................................................................................... Dark Sea by Zulaikha South........................................................................................ The Valley of Khayal by Wajiha Khalil........................................................................ Cleaning Out My House by j. Maryam Mathieu......................................................... I Broke My Heart with You by Ray Lacina.................................................................. She’s a Mystic by Abbas Mohamed............................................................................. Until by Efemeral......................................................................................................... My Lacking is My Abundance by Skip Maselli...........................................................Biographies..............................................................................................................................

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Introduction

Emily Dickinson once wrote, “If I read a book [and] it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the only ways I know. Is there any other way?” Poetry is language that must be felt to be understood; like a well told joke, if it has to be explained, it loses its power and potency. Poetry is beyond paraphrase because, more than oth-er forms of language, what is being said is always inseparable from the way it is said. Poetry must be felt with the heart and not just coldly understood. If it is merely understood, and has not moved one, then it has not succeeded. Poetry has always been intimately tied to mystery, the unseen, and the spiritual path. Many were the great masters who confessed that when they sought to express their realizations and awakenings - poetry was the most capable vehicle available. Edward Hirsch remarked that, “the poem delivers on our spiritual lives precisely because it simultaneously gives us the gift of intimacy and interiority, privacy and participation.” Poetry allows us to go deep within ourselves, and to experience this interiority communally. Poetry takes spiritual work. One must face oneself and work to peel the layers of ego away so that one can “get out of the way” of truth and beauty. The great sage Imam al-Ghazali wrote allegorically of a pure spring that flows from the depths of the human heart. This spring is a type of inner knowledge, a primordial awareness innate in all of us. It is covered over, for most people, with the polluted water of distraction, attachment, desire, and illusion that flows into the heart through the five senses. The spiritual aspirant must disci-pline himself with the practices--like silence, solitude, contemplation, and fasting--which close the doors of the senses and allow the fountain in the heart to flow unobstructed and undiluted. Poetry, in essence, is a contemplative method which leads to heightened awareness and removes the rust of heedlessness from the heart. The mystic German-language poet Rainer Rilke advised aspiring poets, “Make your ego porous. Will is of little importance, complaining is nothing, fame is nothing. Openness, patience, receptivity, solitude is everything.” The task of the poet, like the seeker on the spiritual path, is to become receptive to divine inspiration, and to cleanse the mirror to more fully reflect the divine light. The spirit is a vast ocean, and the poets--who have done the work to develop lungs to dive deep--allow those of us nearer the surface to witness and experi-ence what they bring back from the depths. This encourages us along and gives us the courage and the inspiration to dive deeper ourselves. Walt Whitman said that the deepest spirit of poetry is awe. I think he was onto something very profound. The poet must write from a place of awe. And, perhaps more difficult to accom-plish, he or she must somehow capture that awe and plant its seeds in the reader or listener.

It is commonplace to bemoan the loss of poetry in our age. Undoubtedly, the role of poetry

I found my tribeI found my tribeBalance I foundThey speak the language of my soulAnd they see the fire within my heartThey understand the melody of my songsAnd they read between my lines

~ Nile Mystic

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has been greatly diminished in the 21st century. Some attribute this to the prevalence of literal-ism, materialism, and reductionism—which are anathema to the poetic soul. Others blame the rapid shift from an oral culture to a print-based culture to a digital-visual culture. Some credit the loss of a symbolist spirit, the indifference to the sacred, and the general disenchantment of the world that has been underway of late. For others the culprit is a general lack of silence and the blinding pace of modern life, which reduces time for contemplation and reflection—things necessary for the development of an interiority so common in other ages, and so necessary for an appreciation of poetry. At root all of these reasons can be reduced to the loss of “awe.” We might use the word “awe” to translate the Arabic word “taqwa.” Taqwa is one of those notoriously un-translatable words. It is an awareness that the Ultimate Reality is ever present and that the Pres-ence of the Infinite is never absent. The spirit of poetry is awe at the particularity and the entirety of it all. And for the believer, the awe is always the awe of the One, or the awe of multiplicity in light of the One. Poetry is a connecting science; an art of unveiling the web of interconnectedness that lies hidden in plain sight beneath the appearance of outward forms. Poetry is a means to point to the eternal in the temporal, the universal in the particular, the pattern in the random, the meaning in the seemingly inconsequential. In the words of Percy Shelley, “Poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world, and makes familiar objects be as if they were not familiar.” William Blake put it succinctly,

To see a World in a Grain of SandAnd a Heaven in a Wild Flower

Hold Infinity in the palm of your handAnd Eternity in an hour

I am grateful to have had the opportunity to work with these poets to hone their craft, and dive into this ocean, throughout the month-long Opening the Eye of the Heart workshop hosted by Rumi Center for Spirituality and The Arts. We came together to read and write poetry every day for a month, but somewhere along the way we ceased to be 30 individuals sharing poems and became instead 30 mirrors facing one another. I have been moved to laughter and to tears by their words and I will miss waking up each day and drinking my morning coffee while reading their fresh poems and reflections. This collection is a selection of the poems that were written throughout the course. The course was organized around four weekly themes and the four chap-ters of this book reflect this. Many people think poetry is just about self-expression, but poets know that poetry has always been more about self-discovery. It is a powerful contemplative method which allows us to explore the deeper recesses of our consciousness, and to examine some of our unanswered questions and unquestioned answers. I congratulate these poets for carrying on the tradition and for having the double bravery to dive within themselves and to share what they have retrieved with the world. They remind us that awe is the natural state of the human being. Small children are perpetually in awe. And the poets are among those who have survived into adulthood without having lost it.

Baraka Blue Ramadan 1439/2018

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Week One The Heart’s Language:

Words, Images and Imagination

In the opening week we explored the way that words relate to images/symbols and imagination in order to understand how poetic language moves us. We considered the role of the poet and poetry in traditional societies on the individual and communal levels. This week served as an introduction to the month long workshop as well as a means for us to begin to reflect on our own relationship to language and imagination and the symbiosis between creativity and spirituality.

Lost TribeBy Nile Mystic

Who am I?

I’m a lover,

and I come from the Mystic tribe

I was conceived in the longest kiss, the confluence of the Blue and the White nile

I was nurtured in the Arabian gulf

My heart bloomed in the lush mountains of the Ohlone land

The Pacific breeze brought love back to my eyes

The ocean waves sang to me every night

The Golden coast fueled my soul on every sight

Who am I?

Who am I?

Who am I?

I’m a lover searching for my lost tribe,

The Mystic Tribe

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ReleaseBy Pam Martin

Let things happen,Let it all flush through,So that more lightMay shine in you.Lay a new foundation,Let the old demons go,Forgive your fight with life

And instead begin to flow.

SwayBy Wajiha Khalil When you are my MasterI am a tulip at zenithwhen you are my companionI am a rose folded in your fragrancewhen you are my neighborI am a dandelionwishing for the wind to blowwhen you bloom magnoliasI bask in your glowOh sun remain in your orbitI will lean to your lightabsorb greenery and sway in delightGarden variationLilies & carnationsCosmic rotationspiritual levitationJamal & Jalal alternationEven if I am your nothingto be nothing is to be somethingor anything to youIts all the same to mebecause I know you are TrueIn this Divine storylineit’s not about me, it’s all about you

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I Love YouBy Abbas Mohamed

There is no loveBut the love of God.There is no thingBut Everything

When I say I love YouI am loving God

When I say I love youI am loving youI am loving God.

The Secret of the RoseBy j. Maryam Mathieu

I whisper to you of the roseher beautyher tender red petalsdewyher sweet breath reminds of us our lost homeI whisper to you of the rosebut how can you see her red petalswhen you are surrounded by a glass domeof blues, greens, pink, and brownsyour world, a snowglobeglass surroundsyou, thick like a citadel

I wish I could be the bellthe sound that shatters your wallsbecause how can you know the scent of the roseand her sweet promise of heavenwithout having touched your noseto her sun-warmed heartand touched her tender limbswith your skin

I can shout, I can screambut you won’t hear meeven at the top of my lungs for eternityor 5 years

look! look at what I’ve found!look at the beauty I’ve seen!

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so, at last, I leaveto find a companion who can share the scent of the rosewith meI’m so sorry

By Maryam Seipp

If the Friend knocks at the doorDrop everything!Even if the house would burn down!

- ironing @ home

Waiting for the Spider to Returnby Skip Maselli

Planet earth is a garden forest skyline.I stick my face in its bosom often.It is a sea of foaming white caps, and abuzzing hive of fuzzy bodied bees;a pile of empty paint cans andhalf buried abandoned car tires.It is the tipping sleeping tea tree,filled with the susurrus of singing birds.Below the silver mistis a percussion of clicking heelsand pavement-scuffers,etching paths on a celestial-sized magnetic sphereto which the metal of all mankind sticks.The earth is the sweet creamy fillingbetween chocolate wafers.The mantle surface is teamingwith a tangle of connective nerve fibersthat defibrillates the heart.Everything is conjoined through the senses,so that life seems to be just a country roadbetween dusty towns.Electric hissing dendritesattach the hollows of my chestto every single vibrating thing –I am nothing but a gossamer threadscintillating in sunlight.The earth ensnared in me,we are waiting for the spider to return.

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Promise By j. Maryam Mathieu

I’m so sorry I couldn’t staywings clippedin your gilded cage(I would have, but you know me too well,thank you, my love,for not letting my light fade)from the beginningI promised you it would be this wayyou always knew there would come a daywhen it would be time for me to fly awayit was a promise I madeso long agoby the Grace of Allah, my promise is trueand now you knowand I promisethis seven years were onlyseeds scattered in my heartand the garden has yet to budand bloomwe have yet to even taste the fruitthis, I promise youI just have so much to dobecause, years before I ever met you,I promised a Face I never knewthat I would never look away from the shadowthat consumesI will never forgetI promise youand I ask you to promise meyou’ll meet me on the other sideso maybe, inshaAllah, we can be neighbors in Paradiseor be born to the same tawny doe in the foresttwin fawns, frolicking in the grassuntil we must part waysat lastor,let’s be reborn together as a dandelion patch!meandering the meadows togetheron the windflying as tiny seeds with silver thatchpromise me you’ll find me when it’s all overand I promise I’ll never forget youas I go on my wayas I flyyou know I’m a dancer

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with the angels in the skywith the demons insideand I can’t stopto stop is to diebut I promiseI will never forgetand you know I’ve never lied,if you promise me to meet me when all is said and donepromise to meet me on the other sidepromise to meet me on the other side

Connecting with Mother EarthBy Maryam Seipp

Connecting with Mother EarthFullCompleteTo the bottom everywhereUntil you have no feet.Discontent deep in her soulA revenge spilt by oilLiquid and smokeless fireDeluded complacent toil.“To bleed, no longer can women visit my hills, no longer do men speak to me; cut me down, patent my seed.”Discontent exists in meSearching forever Home beyondI think this is part of the trickeryIt’s the Mother that I longNot up there, out there in a Paradise long forgottenBut down here deep withinA road less trodden.Oh! How she is part of my heart,my eyes, my ears, my touchWith her one and only CreatorIt’s love,it’s beautythat’s struck.Her sweet mysterious essenceChased so deeply in the groundAllah found her refugeShe waits patiently to be foundFor all of us to move in, not out,but bound.With her He gave birthto an eternal child,we are made of roots and clay,she makes us meek and mild.

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So let’s loose our feet, belovedsPlace our head beneath hers,we may have a little time but the trumpets in rehearse.

I think this group defines making True Love... or, making Love True. It’s really beautiful to be together, thank you. Alhamdulillah.

The Travels of RashidBy Skip Maselli

Rashid saw a stubborn child crying today,his mom clutched the dusty-faced boyfirmly by the armand every time she shook him,he squealed a different note.She was playing the instrument of his miseryAnd Rashid sat in the dirt to listen.God put a jagged pebble in Rashid’s shoe to see if he could still walk a straight path. It was a tiny black stone, much smaller than his foot. Favoring the least painful step, Rashid strayed east.Wearily he wandered upon a roadside travelerpulling fiercely on a cow’s leg.The poor beast’s hoof was caught in a cattle guard. Rashid removed his cloak, and he and the vagabond got to freeing the ensnared leg, making music from the cow’s pain.We make bread from the tears of misery and the flour of mercy,feasting on the painful wandering,making music along the wayfor Rashid to follow.

Urban MawlidsBy Wajiha Khalil

This eveningThe Oud tray is showing useThe ‘lemon, lavender, mint’ organic teaWas the chit chatThe elderly Arab woman & I

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Indulged coffeeWe desperately needed afterthat Arabic poetryShe told us howHer husband died on HajjAnd due to road closingsWas buried in the graveyard of martyrsA circle of vulnerable heartsWe talked boundariesFrequenciesserviceMarifaspiritual recourseAnd secretsOne of themShe knew Allah as a childWithout any messengerAnd would write him a letterAnd place it in the MoonglowTo be readI felt my heart openLike a lotus flowerEven while the cake trays needed fixingThis eveningA night journeyBetween the sacred precinctsOf my sisters’ hearts

Next Generation TeachingsBy Pam Martin

O Sacred ChildHow to explain this world to you?With all its beauty and its pain.All the love lost and all the love gained,That is too often lost again.Always remember who you are,For it’s so easy to lose the way.When in doubt,Look for a lighthouse,

And float back home with the rain.

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Ones and ZeroesBy Asim Memon

I look for peace in ones and zeroesThere is so much to drown inin ones and zeroesPerhaps the peace I look for is herethe waves beckon me inBut it’s time,my app tells me so.Maybe this ritual will give me peace,the wise ones told me so,maybe it did give peace,I don’t rememberwhat did you reciteI don’t rememberI say Peace to the angelssup’ I say.did they replyI don’t rememberbecause before they didmy hands reach for the device, the beautiful ocean of ones and zeroesthe whirring sleek rectangle of aluminum and steelI take a sip, but it’s bitter, there is nothing newit’s been 3 minutes, look again!disappointed, no dopamine to be found herethe heart sinks back, agitated and ruffledWalk away from the prayer mat, find another device,another cradle of ones and zeroesWhat will it have that the former didn’t provide?But the heart needs a high,these ones and zeroes will deliverwander aimlessly on this ocean, perhaps peace is to be found hitherperhaps i will stumble upon peace, remember only the seeker finds.except that the seeker looks for solace in ones and zeroesit’s time to pray againhurry, pray, so you’ll be done for the dayand soon it will be time again to look for villains and heroesit’s time again to drown in ones and zeroes

Our First Language By Rashida James-Saadiya

What was once heavynow fits in our handsso we throw it away

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scattering broken piecesacross a midnight skyWe pray for rain and waitIf water can purify the soulperhaps it can flood the pastscab over festering woundsHelp us to build homesnew stories from our breathmake love, not memory our first language

Coffee PrayersBy Efemeral

The alarm rings before the Alarm ringsI’m upI’m upI’m not up.

I lie,in the liminal land escapebetween the coverups and downs and half-explained half-truthsI lie until I can lie no longer.

Feet touch cool floorevery moment-movement on the Pathan old floorboard - squeakinggiving me and my position away.

I debate my position,toss and turn,set trial dates for my position,weep and yearn,cop, judge and jurydeath rowrecord my position on my position as a summary execution!No mercy in the decision that was not mine to maketo begin with.

To begin withthe alarm rings before the Alarm ringsis a Mercy.

As I lie in the liminal land escape between the covers and half-filled cups of coffee:

All praise is to the OneWho gives me life after giving me deathAnd to the Merciful One is my return.

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RiseBy Amanda Chanda

I amA womanFierce, determinedFrom two peopleWhoDid not love meunconditionallyWhoDid not care for meUnconditionallyBut stillI RoseAnd I will continueTo RiseAnd stay on the beautifulSiratal mustaqueemNow a parent myselfWith two boysWho have helped show meThe pathway ofLove, joy and laughterI will continue to Rise.

Why did you turn away?By Asim Memon

Why did you turn away?Was it your genes?Predisposed to a madness,which keeps a window open for rageWas it your hormones?Inclined to lustWhy did you turn away?Was it your amygdala?Rushing to overwhelming fear and anxiety,Was it your company when you were young?wreaking havoc on an impressionable frontal cortex?Why did you turn away?Was it your social status?Corroding your confidenceMaking you obsess about the next rung?Like your cousins on the treesconspiring to topple the alpha,Was it the influence of your ancestors centuries before

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Pre-literate middle eastern farmers,looking at the sun for wisdom,Why did you turn away?Was it your father?Telling you to do as I say not as I do?Was it an unfortunate spouse,scarring you with their hate,rendering you incapable of softness yourselfWhy did you turn away?Was it an unconscious biasthat you don’t recognize,telling you to be afraidof that manvery afraid,he’s black and bigvery afraid,or a propensity to violence,inherited through a culture of honor,which whispered to you that your clan’s honoris worlds above that girl’s sanctity,.Maybe it was all of the aboveBut what about you, the real you,your heart of hearts, the one which naturally inclines to be ‘saleemThe Creator of that heart will not lay on ita burden more than it can handle.an anxious amygdala,a hard-wired genome,a disadvantaged rung,an oppressive playground,a nervous mother,the harshest of spouses,even runaway testosteroneThis heart was not created by Onewho would let these run over you likeso many locustsClose your eyes,And rememberthis heart was made for the gardenA garden underneath which rivers flowIs the iron happy in the fierce kiln?Your heart which feels overheated and exhausted In this worldIs like that same iron,It does not know that its going homeAnd everything in the ephemeral realm is just that, ephemeral.

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They Say There Is a TreeBy Baraka Blue

they say there is a treeatop a mountain,growing out of the heartof a saintor perhaps they saythe mountainitself, is growingout of his heartor maybethey even saythis great cosmic mountain,the entire universe,is growing outof his heart,each galaxy a clusterof fruiton his greatand bowing limbsand I won’t blame youfor not believing the partabout the mountainif you, yourselfhave never been a treegrowing out of the heart of a saint

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Week TwoA Universe Of Meaning:

The Sacred Nostalgia

This week we explored some of the major themes and symbols prevalent in the Sufi poetic tradi-tion. We read, reflected on, and discussed samples from prominent Sufi poets, with special atten-tion to the most influential work of Sufi poetry, Rumi’s Mathnawi. We practiced writing poems that employ these themes and symbols.

Ṭala‘a ‘l-Badru ‘alaynā (The Full Moon Rose Over Us)By Efemeral

Years ago, I walked Eastalong Broadwayfrom where the hospital revivesthe city’s woundedtowards the mural of la Virgen,her prayer full hands claspedto serve you,the best tacos my city has to offer.

Past purpose is now purposelessfor memory’s sakeI no longer rememberwhat I was walking from,where I was going,

only that every Eastbound stepwas a sinking intoviscousviscidvisceral

Light

pouredforthflowingfromeverysinglefacethat I passed,years ago, as I walked East

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along Broadway.

Enveloped in cityscapeI submerged synesthesiousin a Lightsomewhere inbetweenolive oil and sweet honey.

Light shone, unearthlyfrom those moon faces -some perhaps more full than others,but allI knewwas the light in every phase.

Years ago, I walked Eastalong Broadwayyearning,I suppose,

to one day drownin the brilliant bright flood ofperfectly reflectedIllumination

Day 9 PoemBy Logan David Siler

Putting myself in sujoodLooking for Mercy To re-enter the gardenWhen the baby starts to cryI don’t rush my prayerNot again, I thinkSelfishly spiritualI hear the couch creakFollowed by quick footstepsHer Mercy is unveiledIn her shooshing, soothing criesDo you want milk? She asksA familiar word to calm his anxietiesI stand aloneIn restored silenceMy selfishness suddenly nakedIn awe of her lack of effortThe lesson is not lost

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Under the Wide Swallowing SkyBy Ray Lacina

Under the wide, swallowing skyspread thin with cloudsover stars and stars and starsa wind invoking the million throated plainsong of the treesa swollen moon leaning inover the treetopsthe falling windthe silenceIn all this world loud with soul shatteringdepthsheightsvastnesseslightsdarknesseslightsit seems this sujud should be asmallthingand yet

Shukr bil-Lisan (Thankfulness of the Tongue)By Rashida James-Saadiya

In the middle of the night when you need God most may the sky unfold and pull you closer

May the ache of uncertainty drift away and the ocean within your chest, spill from your eyes For wherever there is darknessthere is light and wherever there is light there are angels waiting patiently to hold your hand So that you may know the beauty of heaven and earththe tenderness of wisdom

By the moon which brightens and the pen that shall recordLet it be written in bone and marrowstitched in the breath of patience and prayer be certain of nothing except the existence of God For every star is a prophecy

May you become a descendant of light

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May the thread of faith run through your hands May your prayers be heardand your voice raised in gratitude

May your feet be planted firmly and guided only by the way of love May you walk with those who embody grace and whenever you are lost may this path bring you home, again and again

In the middle of the night when you need God most may the sky unfold and pull you closer

I Found MyselfBy Maryam Seipp

“I found myself in the mud!!”~ the lotus

AutumnBy Maryam Seipp

This tree does not watch herself,turn from green to red to yellow,to brown to finally fall in decay,She simply stands and slowly whirls,praising You day after day.

Day 10 PoemBy Logan David Siler

As more memories leaveI wonderwhat connects meTo the one who experienced themAs present moments?Finding joy in the occasional expressionIn daydreams and stolen zen momentsThe day dreams bringPain sometimes tooWhen they take overFeeling most aliveIn a boxcar

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On the side of the roadThumb outOr on the front porchSipping black coffeeSon on lapDaughter running in the grass

The CityBy Zulaikha South

In the city I walk entrancedI hear the hammer on the anvilI press the crushed petals to my lipsand every door holds the image of a sacred mapradiating circles and diamonds and starsevery house opens onto awellspring

in my room at nightI feel the pull of my heartrise through the roofand flow out through theCosmos

the ceiling is twenty metres highand my breath is higherI inhale with the fuqarawho gatheringin the garden of orangesthat very minutechant ofLife

unable to get there by footin the night alleywaysI stay homein the roomin the centre of theUniverse

the city is made of the pure heartof Beingit’s labyrinth lanewaysartisans and traders and men and womenhave scaled the sky on the rope of Godand brought His vision backso that it echoes in everycourtyard

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the full moonrising over the fountain at fajr timeand the adhan callsechoes in the dark of theuniverse city

the same adhan that calls in my own heartfive times a dayI am the qamariyya of Sana’aI am the warm sand fashioned into mud in TarimI am the fountain sweeper calling ‘Marhaba Hajja’astonishing me expanding me in welcomethe olives that grow before the rise of the Rifseed bathed in the light of the first creationI am that light too

it would be easy tostay for several lifetimesin the city in the heart of the universecradled by eternityrolling over in loveeach day and each minutea portal to themoment

and this is whywe must live somewhere elseso far awayin the city that is not a cityin the buildings that have no heartpost-structural distortionswhere curves give way to jaggedand disjointed brokennesswhere flat streets call our souls into heedlessnessand to hear the adhanrequires a dedicatedwill

there are no props hereHe said ‘love all My Faces’and so we must

Day 12 - Poem 1By Logan David Siler

Ringing earsLiving room rug

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On bare feetThe breath, the pulseThe beating heartSeems they should be prominentInstead hidingBehind mental ruckus

Day 12 - Poem 2By Logan David Siler

In betweenRadio and rubber screamingEngine hummingMemories judgingBetween the dark night skyAnd pulsing lightsLuminating the hillsideBetween humming wallsAnd power line infrastructureBetween personAfter personAfter personIs a silent stillnessI want to live inThe unchanging

MurmurBy Zulaikha South

small boylimbs as delicate as birdsskin made from the wings of dragonfliesa chrysanthemum blooming in your laugh

you are all heartand yet your heart is too much heartand it holds and won’t let go heartand the terror that I might need tolet go of youstrikes myheart

and when you sleep I stroke my fingersalong your vertebraeand I trace the birthmark thatsits below your hip

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that is also heartshaped

I named you afterthe heart of the land of saintsand I make a dhikr to connect you tothe Muhammadan heart

small boyheart that murmurswith a thousand hearts

I called you gentle and subtle heartand you were bornto break myheart

TajalliBy Wajiha Khalil

The dyes of preternity synchronize to call you NurPeace be upon you echo the angelsYour notes hold a thousand frequencies unnoticedExchange between channels purified from ocean to oceanThe lote tree shook and confounded the inhabitantsAs you bloomed within the seed infinite petals rejoicedSmall innocent hands of fireflies caught a glimpse but kept the secretThe flashes told the heart’s eyes how to singSnowflakes became sunbeams awakening to SpringEmerald, diamond and ruby pledged to serve youRainbows veiled their hues to shine sheerCoal simmered in obedience as stone listenedSwaying palm trees confessed and wheels praised every turnCorners sacrificed meeting to honor sacred spaceWinds harmonized to carry the glad tidings on invisible wingsCrystals absorbed energy to beam until alMahdiCotton learned soft and silk slipped into smoothEyes blinked absent of darkness because of the radiance of the lightEach particle testifies to its purposeAs every wave gives up its lifeThese are the cloaks that coverThe traveler on the road to God

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Prayer for ReturnBy Abbas Mohamed

In darkness:I seek you Giver of LightI beseech you Giver of LifeI wish to see you Giver of Sight

In life:I breathe you freshest of airwalk beneath you my highest affairI need you for worries and care

In death:I see you Oh BelovedMy heart outstretched it glows ignitedMy soul is home with You united.

Ya Lateefu Ya WadudBy Abbas Mohamed

Imagine loving someonewho puts you to peaceand serves you comfortthat you almost just wantto lay down your headand sleep for a while

Imagine loving someonewith such ferocitysuch passionthat you can’t standa single moment without themeven if its justto lay down your headand sleep for a while

Imagine loving someone

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so much that everyset of eyes in a crowdbelonged to Her alonewho else that matters, exists?who else that exists, matters?

Imagine loving someoneso much in every momentthat every scent was Hersevery drunken smileevery crushed grape sipa remembrance of Her love

until it wasn’t

Imagine loving someonein every passing momentuntil you forget Her for an houror maybe even a dayimagine being forgotten for a dayor maybe evena weekor a year

Imagine forgetting someoneso much that in every momentthat in that crowd of eyesyour wandering eyesjust wandered

yet in that crowd of eyesShe saw you with every oneShe loved you with every one

Imagine being loved by someoneso muchinEVERYmoment

You don’teven have toImagine

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Write About God and this LoveBy Skip Maselli

“Write about God and this love,”She requestsbut of what do I write?I softly protest.What is the color of Her absence?what is the scent of His breathlessness.

She is the weight of the pathpressed into the “soul” of my feettaken by the hand,led toward the heartno sooner does She appear, wanting to departon the spiraling riseof curiosityof that which is beyond the horizon of our earthbound reasoning.

I’ve burned my lipsspeaking Your ninety-nine names,just to recoil to the well of my heart to sip Your cool waters, and soothe the searing pain;In my quest to quench this thirstI sweat tears into the soilas I dig beneath the earth the waters for which I search.This is my toil.This is why You came.

This is what drives me,this is what explains.This is the desire to fall in love again.Is it the heat or is it the fire?To whom does this quest pertain,do I seek Her shade in the heat of the moment,or search His bellows to fan the consuming flame?

What leads me toward Your secrets?Is it the eloquence of my questionsuttered in my sleep,or the promise of Your answersbeyond my woken reach? Oh, both are tricks of dreams.

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Awakened to God’s whisper,“Khamosh,”this is what I hear.In the morning shadows of tiny hours,‘tis Her gentle nudgethat pushes me from the lofty tower of the mind,and I fallto the depths of my souldissolved in the source of Her blessed call.

We cannot return to the precipiceafter we’ve leapt from the edge of the cliff,entrusting our fate to gravity,We hurl toward the hollows of destiny, somay we surrender all our fractured religionsalong the wayto the Master of one Religiosity.

Let us be mad as we fall into this; pray, go softly as we landgrowing wings for flightfalling through the abyss.Oh, the power of a metaphoris the latitude in a voiceheard with a diversity of meaningpoetry is among the longitudes of choice.

In this crazy tavern,the truth is painted by the tongueand heard in the colors of our ears.Poetry pours the wine that slakes but we are drunk on confusion not the fermented grape.

There’s a key in our heartto the lock which protects itwe wait for a turn, a tumble the rhythmic click.Writing of God and love is the realizationthat the truth of beautyis the beauty of truth,only unlocked by those captured within their own heart’s creation.an unimagined imagination.

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The Dream of DraftsBy Ray Lacina

I live in a dream of drafts,words stuffedsentences regurgitated from the regurgitations of other regurgitatorsthoughts stretched thin premises squeezed out“In the world today”“There are both pros and cons”“Experts portray”“Casual analysis”“In conclusion”In conclusion,I live in a dream of draftsnothing finalnothing perfectall rough edges and jagged shards of broken thoughtswords stuffed insentences stretched thinThe master wrote, “I have created perception in youonly in orderto be the object of my perception.”Dearly beloved...don’t squander perception.Perceive:You live in a dream of draftsand in those draftsare all the wordsyou needjust misaligned.

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Week ThreeThe Divine Mirror: Nature & the Names

This week’s theme built on the previous weeks as we explored the Sufi understanding of the Divine Names, allowing us to envision the world as the great Sufi poets may have seen it. We introduced the Sufi understanding of the 99 names, as well as the symbol of the mirror as representing both the world and human consciousness. This week required each of us to spend some time in the natural world meditating upon the Names and writing about our experience.

Muftaḥ al-maḍbakh (Key to the Kitchen)By Efemeral

Poetry is not the point.

Who,when a rich mouthful of ecstasyis heapedonto their awaiting tongue,ever recalls their grocery list?

Floodgates OpenBy Pam Martin

Fear of letting these dam cracks show,Knowing well the raw force of water rushing against these walls behind, Will surely sweep me away for good.

Still, something, someone, somewhere, says to me, “It’s time to go, my love.”

Tears for fears and for release,Overwhelm the man-made structure made obese.Critical mass at its peak floods the valley below, Heart pounding at the prospect of undertow.Shows how little I really know,About water.

For it doesn’t take long,For all to become calm,And I safely submerge into you.

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HereBy Pam Martin Water sparkling with the light What a delightful scene. I swear that I am here nowIf only in a dream. Spring is springing forwardLeaves of autumn fall away,The path is getting clearer nowAn Nur, come what may. The breeze passes through me,The sound of it does too,The smell of burning sage and barkIs dancing with the view. Billowing birch, sacred cedarHave all manifested through,Praise Allah, the infinite oneThat led me here to you. The warm rays of sunlight shineOn this mountaintop today,May the whole world feel as I feel now At peace, in love, I pray.

Al-Ba’ithBy Ray Lacina

Stand down.Mondays roll around with stoney inevitability,each day rolls around, heavy, inevitable,thick with busy, with busy, with busywith the work of it all, things that need to get donethe mustSit down. In the lawn, maybe,maybe just inside the treesbeside the wetlands,beside the pine needle path.Sit down,stroke the grass like a lover’s hairas she sleeps, beautifuldespite a trickle of salivadespite a snort, a grunt, a humming snore.Thrust your fingers into the grass

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as she sleepsso beautiful you feel the ache in the heart of your heartin your living bonesthe living bones of the earth,beneath the soil beneath the grass beneath your hands, reaching toward your burrowing fingersLay down. Lay your cheek against her hair, feel her warm alive under youFeel all the days peel backCry Ya al-Ba’ith!

HeirloomBy Rashida James-Saadiya

Somewhere there are tears and bombsrupturing the beauty of sacred landSomewhere there are boatsfilled with people carrying nothing except the gift of breathSomewhere there are fathers using every inch of their bodiesto pull their children across borders,for the comfort of safetySomewhere the sun has left its place and there is only my GrandmotherFor when the sky is full of darkness and the world is asleepShe sits alone and prays

“Ya Allah, surely you’re the best of weavers. Weave a song among us. A joyous song of love upon our lips, so that we may leave the sorrows of this world, for the mercy of your wisdom. By the setting of the stars, my soul is a wanderer in search of the true purpose of my feet. Please show us the way. Help us to walk with certainty despite the spread of darkness. Verily it is by your labor and mercy that we exist though the world may injure our bodies. It is you, who preserves the soul. Remind us. Help us to turn the soil with our hands, to plant something better. To mend our bones, to purify our hearts in oceans made of compassion and infinite love. Ya Allah! Give us more than we deserve.”

For somewhere there are broken heartswaiting for a new song, a joyous song one that removes sorrow from bones one that guides our bodies into vessels capable of healing this world

LoveBy Maryam Seipp

Like the glass is servant to the water, that serves to wet my lips and quench my thirst. So too is that of evil which serves me the path of goodness, to water my heart and quench my longing.All together is Love.In the end there’s no need of glass or water, as long as I’m quenched into nonexistence.

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The RiverBy Zulaikha South

I can say the word ‘God’ nowbut sometimes I get tiredand I want to run back tothe river

Sometimes that word pins me downinto a heavy weary caricatureof a believer

I was able to come to religion sidewaysbecause Allah was not Godbut another Word

some words open like a lotus under every footbut other words are stones that have no step

Allah escaped my post-modernityAllah was Beyond me in entiretyuntil I became a Muslim

Stepping into the mosqueAllah became ‘God’and I wanted to runback to the river

the river that soothesthings into theirright places

the path to the waterholeis not herein these simulated formsand misappropriated costumes

undress me back to the momentof my first rememberingbeyond the imageswe built of selfand other

I’m breathing my way back to countryand the scent of the eucalyptus after the rainand delicate pink heathfloweringin the imprint

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of the horses hoof

and late nightsspent drawing by candlelightSidi Ali Sidi Harazemwords in a bottlewater from the river of the saints

there are snakes on the streets againcollecting wives for playand I’m running back to countryweary of beards and blame

take me home to countryto pristine territory before namingto virgin birthand relief from shaming

have you ever seen a soul at home in a dead body?

breathe me back to my riverwhere the guilt of mothersis restored into silenceand where the bloodlinesgive way to the water

Mystic LaughterBy Wajiha Khalil

The laughter of the mystic contains a thousand secrets and is the alchemy of a thousand tears.

SubmissionBy Abbas Mohamed

I prayed for His attention, it was ME that was ignoringI prayed for his Walis and THAT is when it started pouringI prayed for openings, and now the light it blinds me dailyIt finds me, then it binds me and in my binding, frees me daily!

ThirstBy Abbas Mohamed

When you sip of seawater,the thirst always remains.

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The more I know you,the more I love you,the more I go insane!

Oh, Cottonwood TreeBy j. Maryam Mathieu

Oh, Cottonwood Tree,I have forsaken thee,Thy invitation to imbibe thy mystery.From the scent of sticky red bud,all sunshine, play, and honey,to thy downy seedfloating on the breeze,“Come, sit beneath these leavesand listen to me.Together let’s breathe,me in thou, thou in me,”you send on the wings of the bees.And now, I am in the heart of the city,Thy invitation of honey bud and downy seedLost in the breeze,no longer reaching me.Oh, Cottonwood Tree,I have forsaken thee.Please,Forgive me.

UntitledBy Logan David Siler

The Spanish found the IslandUselessYet the ChumashWere created hereIt was their GardenThe tall treesAre immigrantsHanging overNative shrubsGrass plantedFor colonial sheepHas taken overThough they found itUseless, long agoOnto the next money maker

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Yet the Islandhad her own nameNot after a foreign saintBut a saint in her own rightFor she endured, sacrificedIn the name of primordial love

The GentleBy j. Maryam Mathieu

For now, the air is sweetand my belly, fullthe sunlight warms my armsas i walk along the riverbankarm in arm with my belovedit’s easy nowi can restin the arms of my beloveduntil the crushing season returnsand my soul shrivels into itselfuntil poof! like the ash of a leaf in the windit’s gone for the merest momentand i’m free againand the world is bright but still kissed with dewand all the shy creatures are awakeand gathering their foodi am the grass, i am the dew,i am the deer gathering her food

Human BeingsBy Abbas Mohamed

The best thing we can dofor ourselvesis be

The best thing we can befor our soulsis empty

To allow Divine BreathTo fill the empty spacesTo Remember usTo Speak to usTo Create usTo Annihilate us

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To Speak through usTo Create through usTo Express through usTo Remember HimThrough us

The best thingfor us to beIs nothing

She Holds Behind the CurtainBy Ray Lacina

She holds behind the curtain her breathAl-Baatin

As in the dark room beyond prey cries out, the great cat leapt, eyes glittering with only starlightshe peeks out from behind the curtain, her breath drawn in, Al-Mumit

sees what her absence madeAr-Rauf, surrenders a single tear, streaks down

Al-Latiif draws gently open the dark folds, makes all the world bend aroundthe curve of her cheek, the trace of a tear

Pulls silently aside the darkness, Al-Wadud, her eye--and what can tell you the songs, the sonnets, sung, broken by the beauty of that eye--Al-Muzil, Al-Mu’izz

her eyes, her eyes, her eyesAl-Raqib

Al-Latiif, her cheek’s curve, her proud chin, my breath stopped by the lovely of it

Al-Musawwir reaches out and draws all the oceans in my blood out of true

Al-Hadi jerks me from my chair, drags me toward her, stops me short,Those eyes, that cheek, the curve of her

Al-Qahaar as I fold down, my knees cracking on the floor, her hand on the curtainpulls back Ad-Dhaahir Al-Jabbar Al-Azizand shines down on meAn-Nurall the lightAn-Nurall the lightnur

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all the light in the worldYa as-Salaam Ya as-Salaam Ya as-Salaamall the light in the worldgets in

Day 16 PoemBy Logan David Siler

We know where we are fromLimuw, in the seaThough the world has given us scarsStrung barbed fences through our heartsLimuw, our soils have erodedWhere the boar’s snout dug up our rootsBut we emerged, volcanic stone from the oceanTo live amongst other landsLimuw, 13 bands, 13 villagesTheir bones within our living soil Echos of their spirit songs, their warrior songsVibrate invisibly, silently, in our canyons Off our rock faces Winds and storms erode usBut our mountains like pegsHold our earth in placeThe grasses that grow from their way with usWe make them beautiful as winds blow through themAnd we peek through themThe bones of our ancestorsSedimentary lines in our hillsidesthat go deep into our essenceThe material make up is slip castedHeld with the mold of our essence.

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Week FourThe Beloved & Beyond

In the closing week, we reflected on the relationship between human and divine love. We also explored the ineffability of love. Across cultures, the great mystical poets assert unanimously that love is the way to realize the truth, but also assert that the truth that can be spoken is not the truth. As al-Ghazali put it, “Anything that can be said about experiential knowledge (ma’rifa) necessari-ly mixes truth with falsehood.” The taste of the word ‘honey’ is not the taste of honey. We explored the concept of apophasis and read examples from various poets.

After the BreakingBy Ray Lacina

After the breaking something comes.It might come on loudcrashing and banging its way out of stormwith rain pouring all aroundwith lightning clinging to earth, reaching to clouds,as if trying to snatch the groundinto the void.It might shake you, spin youdraw your voice out into theluminescentwhirlof hadra.It might melt the shards of you and recast you whole.More likely, it will slip between the pieces of youlike woodsmokecarried in the belly of the autumn cool,balm for the raw of you.You’ll catch your breath,feel pain you scarcely felt until it liftedlift from you.More likely it’ll find you on the ridgewhere you stopped at twilight, car’s engine ticking as it cools behind youand fill the valley at your feet with fogbrilliantwith sunset,and with the drawing down of the light,the purpling of the sky to black,the moon will risecool on cooland you’ll release the breath you hadn’t heldin a whisperfrom the core of you:“Hu.”

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KhamsahBy Rashida James-Saadiya

You spend your days collecting the heaviness of this world

unfolding and stitching every ache into the tapestry of your prayer mat

In sujood, you wonderif your heart can be mended cleansed of fear, reshaped into certainty

For darkness is a part of this lifeand sometimes you forget that Ihsan waters the seedsand the soul shall reap the harvest

And too often you forget that your holy book is a map

If not now, when?

When will you let God till the soilplant a garden in every place you’ve stored pain

When will you acceptthat there is no need to fear tomorrow for there is nowhere, God is not

Faith can not simply dwell in the heart it must exist in hands that pray and serve all of humanity look closely; there is a cure in the act of giving

If not now, when?

There is no shortage of compassion or joyno shortage of food, land or water

If you want to make this world a better place let love be your currency and give it all away

For you are an instrument of grace, a reflection of light

Depart from the darkness of this worldremove its weight from your spinefast from anguish, recite the names of Godcleanse your heart, cover this earth with prayer

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Follow the map of infinite hope for all things are bound together; and all things share the same breath

Go slow if you must, but go become something as sacred as a seed plant yourself inside God’s soil grow into the possibility of each breathe

Become a testament, a structure of Heaven and Eartha living mosque crafted to serve and remember God

For you are standing in between two worlds the one that spins and the one that awaits

Open your hands, let God guide you

SilenceBy Maryam Seipp

A call for silence isShhhhDon’t push the veilA call for silence isShhhhDon’t move the veilA call for silence isShhhhSit still - inhaleSurrender,Oh OneRevealerUnveilerIf pressed, i fear nakedness may be unfavouredA call for silence isShhhhHeld by OneA call for silence isShhhhhthere is no runA call for silence isShhhhh

ExhaleI’ll fear not my naked, upon Your address,I’ll rush my Love, let You undress.

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Boy By Ray Lacina

BoyYouare so oftenexactly what I’d hoped you’d beand so often a mysterymy son.When I hear you laugh I listen for my laughand usuallyI hear it,and when you cock your eyebrowlike I cock my eyebrowVulcan-cool,I see in you the boy I was and am.And yetthat goal from the far side of the fieldthose perfect crescent kicksthe easy way you turn strangers to friendsthe way you sometimes askexactly the question that isin exactly the words that make itbeyond me to answerWhen I see in your eyes that sometimes smile like mineyouyour heart, your mind, the keenness of thoughts that arebeyond meto guess,the will the heart the soulwholly yours, entirely youyou, my sweet boyare Mystery.

Day 22 PoemBy Logan David Siler

Could it be?A rushed prayerA skipped sunnahAn internet debateThen too much cakeA rushed reflectionBefore bed too lateIs there holy silenceSomewhere in this?Subtly with me

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When my brain’s too loudWaiting for me to notice?Even in this,Do it with consciousness

RosesBy Maryam Seipp

I’ve been standing on the peripheralof a gathered crowdholding this stonelike a corpseplaying God.“Arrest this woman!Bind her to the shadow of the cross!”Disarmingly pulled to centerto offer the other cheekand all the dead stones thrown at meturn to roses at my feet.

I Seek YouBy Maryam Seipp

When the sun sets and the day endsI seek You in the dark to know comfort, not fear.I seek You in the spaces between wordsI avail myself of Your giftYou bring me a special peaceYou are hereAnd You love me.

Dark SeaBy Zulaikha South

I don’t know anything about loveunless you can call this paralysisthis desperation to do the right thingwithout knowing what it islovethis totally giving upI have no idea and will never know againlove

not knowing

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has finally taken me by the earsand my life has become one enormouszen koan

there’s no conceivable wayto figure anything outor to label any emotionor dissect any situation

in this state, what is choosing?the means and availabilitythe tools of appraisalare gone

was there ever a time in whichI knew something?this is no numbnessor pretentious gesturing at emptinessit’s not avoiding accountabilityor misconstruing qadr

I close my eyesand a dark sea stirsin the ebb and flow of windoutside my windowthere are no answerseven if a posse of grandfathersstepped by now to take me by the handI couldn’t muster a questionor gesture for direction

I’m a spent forcewhat can I tell you of lovewhen I know nothingabout anything at all

exceptmake Your movetake meI’m Yours

The Valley of KhayalBy Wajiha Khalil

The valley of Khayal is a warm womb-like basinbuoyant with bodies of meaning where inspirationsstack stanzas like spines and grow the flesh of words

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Angels flock to this full bellied landinscribing the decrees and destinieswhile infinite possibilities and prospects competefor the most auspicious potentialHere, kiss the tree of kismetwith nur kindled foilolethat reveal could-besas the winds of wonder tickle the leavesrevealing new consequences in the combinationsof fortuityWonder beyondwhere the river meets the creekat the corner where the ruby rock reflects namespull a puddle into your palmone sip will fill your mouth with poetryand quench the quest for artHonoring horizons adorn heavenly heartsDidn’t God say “Reflect upon the horizonsand in yourselvesuntil you become sure of the truth”?The horizon & the heart both heedrise in qiyam and surrender in sajdaglorify & witness vast plainsgive up to the sun & the moonand take their place in God’s handsas you mustRest for a timein the cave for khalwauntil you’ve been enlightened with inner glowsilence is the speech of knowersKhayal winds fill your lungs with scentsthat dye with every breatha new color of fragrancethat attunes you to the frequenciesof harmonious channelsto the Sacred Prophet the melody that never leaves youmore intimate than life itselfPluck from the mango orchardwhere the juice rhymes metersof freshly squeezed illuminationget lost within the grape vineyardscrush them with your syllablesand intoxicateThere are landscapeswith padded moss between jagged jewels & rocksthe watery pools reflect the cloudsthat cast shadows but create contrastfor the sunThere is a meadow

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few visit through its narrow pathof towering redwood treesthat can feel frighteningto the outsiderInstead, acquaint yourselfpass through with greetingsintertwine for a whileand salaam upon these friendsThe meadow is ripewith Birds of Paradiseand emerald colored grassAnimals speak various tonguesthat translate through the grace of KhayalThe fresh scent of pine needlesundertones of jasmine flowerssoft whispers of lotus familiesare always revealing new hymnsto those who venture hereWords are incubatinggrowing tempo & harmonynew poems are born every daybirthed in secretin the valley of Khayal

Cleaning Out My HouseBy j. Maryam Mathieu

I’m cleaning out my house.There’s too much clutter here.The stink of decades old refuseis overwhelming.I’m cleaning out my house.I trip and fall on trash everyday,and I can hardly ever findwhat I’m looking for.I’m cleaning out my house,and inviting my Beloved to live here.I’m cleaning out my house.

I’m moving out.

I Broke My Heart With YouBy Ray Lacina

I broke my heart with you.

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After painting your image on every wall,leaning my cheek against eachas the heavy winter rolled in through the open window,“Sarah” thrumming in the air,I squeezed out my poems to the image of you, piled poems all aroundits feet,dreamed a myth of fated meetings, turnings,the impossible next without youthe emptyemptywithoutAnd all the while you lived whole, God-loved, brilliantI worshiped an image of you.I broke my heart with you.The ecstasy of words can betray us.The dream of the hand held, the head tilted, the hair falling just soveils us.And the idols we pray to aren’t godsof stoneof clayof tinthey are the shes and hes we cling toinstead of Him.

She’s a MysticBy Abbas Mohamed

A mystic is a poet:revelations diluted asinspirations transformedin the heart of a mystic.Poetry coursing through veins tilla mystic walks poetrybreathes eats and talks poetryexudes poetryGot one for each and every mood, poetry

That’s a mystic:Always a laugh in her cheek,a smile hidingin the cornersof her eyes

A believeris the mirrorof a believer

A gnostic

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is the mirrorof alMumin

A mysticis the mirrorof the Divineof her Self

A mystic is a mysteryshe is hidden to thosethat cannot see her

But once you openthe Eyes of your Heart,once you polishthe Mirror of your Heart,once you seethrough the Lens of your Heart,

Everywhere you goYou will see another you,I will see another me,You will see a me in you,I will see a you in me.

You’ll see that all is Oneand that One is all we see.How else could it ever be?

UntilBy Efemeral

I’m where Mercy wants me to bedespite where I wanted to be,or maybe -

because of it.Hager will seek to quenchmy thirst:run -from Triumph to Disaster,run -from Disaster to Triumph,

until I runfrom I until Iuntil I resistI until I

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desist Iuntil Ilearn the prayerthat grants settlementin the Zamzam quenched valley,between the two mountsuntil Itreat those two imposters just the same.

Until then, where I am to be iswhere Mercy wants me to be,

and maybe -that is the valley

just the same.

My Lacking is My AbundanceBy Skip Maselli

There is melody within a noisy riverthat only a thirsting man knows.Only those whose fore-arms are scarred by thornshave felt the pleats of the fragrant rose.Dry parchment seeks the stream of the inklike a cube of sugar seeks a tongue’s sweetnessAn audience is nectar to the silent poetit is tea and poetry that listen to the pleas of guests.Empty barrels wait patiently at harvest timeSun, rain, and clay have crept up the vineThe grapes are drunk with longing for the vintnerThis is how love ripens into intoxicating wine.We wandering beggars need a host’s respiteas much as an innkeeper needs his sojourners,who never seem to stay long in the caravanserai,for the closest companion of the thirsty is thirst.

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Biographies

Instructor

Baraka Blue is a highly acclaimed rapper and poet hailing from Seattle and based in Oakland, California. He has performed all over North America as well as the Middle East, Africa, Asia, and Europe. He is highly decorated within the global artist community for his original synthesis of spo-ken word poetry with the tradition of mystical poets such as Rumi and Hafiz. His most recent book of poetry is entitled ‘Empty & the Ocean’. In addition to performances, he has taught classes and led creative writing workshops internationally. His sophomore album, ‘Majunun’s Lost Memoirs’ can be heard in cafes and concert halls all around the globe.

Students

Note: Some biographies omitted per preference of the poet.

Rayan Ali, also known as Nile Mystic, currently lives in Maryland, USA. She is a wanderess and a poet. Nature is her muse. She loves to travel and explore new cultures. You can email her at rayan.ali88@gmail.com, find her on Facebook as Rayan Ali, or follow her on Instagram as @nile_mystic.

It’s all ephemeral, except the OneRooted in the rainy Pacific Northwest, Efemeral explores life through her written free verse and spoken word performance. Her work branches from experience and includes reflections on faith, language, the human psyche and whatever it is she happens to be reading at the moment. With(in) her communities, she has experience facilitating poetry workshops and collaborating with fellow creatives. Efemeral acknowledges the xʷməθkwəy̓əm (Musqueam), Skwxwú7mesh (Squamish), and Səl̓ílwətaʔ/Selilwitulh (Tsleil-Waututh) Nations on whose traditional and unceded territories she lives, writes and performs. You can find her on Twitter and Instagram as @poetefemeral or reach her by email at poetefemeral@gmail.com.

Rashida James-Saadiya is a visual artist, writer, and cultural educator, invested in transform-ing social perceptions through creative literature. Her work explores migration, identity and the transmission of spirituality through poetry and song amongst Muslim women in West Africa and the American South. In addition, she is the Creative Director of Crossing Limits, a multi-faith non-profit organization which utilizes poetry as an instrument for social change, highlighting the intersections of faith and social injustice. You can find her on Facebook as Rashida James-Saadiya, on Twitter as @Rsaadiy or sapelosquare.com as the Arts & Culture Editor or at crossinglimits.org as the Creative Director.

Wajiha Khalil is a teaching artist and lover of all things sacred. She believes in the unseen and tries to spend as much time there as possible. You can find her on Instagram @SacredArtWork-shops.

Ray Lacina is a Professor at Delta College near Saginaw, Michigan, where he teaches writing and a variety of literature courses. He embraced Islam in 1989, and a few years later married into a Hyderabadi (Indian) Muslim family which has tolerated him reasonably well for the last 27 years. He lives in Michigan with his beautiful wife and strapping son. Find him on Facebook @raylaci-

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nawriterguy or on his website at www.raylacina.com.

Pamela Martin currently lives in Ottawa, Canada. She decided to take the course because of a growing feeling that writing from the heart would allow her to move forward in a positive direc-tion. Often feeling stagnant, she works at processing her feelings and letting love light the way. Though she is not of the Islamic faith, she hopes that her commitment to genuine heart connections will resonate with many. You can email her at pmartin90@gmail.com or find her on Facebook as Pam.Martin.16547.

Skip Maselli lives in northern Virginia. A single, full-time dad to Camerin and Aidan, this poet by day wakes to work as a business developer, and by night works to awaken as a Dervish. Lettered in sciences by this university or that, he chooses to learn greater truth through trials and travels across the world and via the passages of heart. He blogs at phosphorimental.com and has two books out, “Twenty-five Words Toward the Truth” and “The Sparrow Who Ate the Universe.” Three book manuscripts are awaiting a publisher. He is a lover of belles lettres, a triathlete, and an aspiring neyzen. A friend of the Friend.

j. Maryam Mathieu has dedicated her life to finding the antidote to sexual slavery. She vowed at 17 to a then-unknown higher power that she would spend her life searching for a way to alleviate human suffering, particularly that of women and girls. She hasn’t found the answer, but Allah did grant her Islam, so she has been able to begin alleviating her own suffering. She’s currently in the throes of revolution in her heart, and poetry gives her heart a voice. Find her free poetry books and other projects on her website at: jmaryammathieu.com. She may or may not be using Instagram, but if she is, feel free to follow her @jmaryammathieu. Maryam is currently working on a Sufi Islamic fantasy novel series for all ages.

Abbas Mohamed has a huge appetite for life and beyond. He is currently involved in projects sur-rounding food, poetry, community, and the arts. Abbas is the Executive Director of GAMA: Gath-ering All Muslim Artists, founding director at Compassion Crew and the Verveside Collective, entertainment director at Halalfest, and a community organizer in the San Francisco Bay Area. He has been writing poetry since 2008, and humbly presents this collection as an offering of peace and blessings. You can find him on Instagram at @babyshamss.

Caroline “Maryam” Seipp lives in Tasmania, Australia. She graduated with an Associate Degree from the University of Tasmania with a strong passion and focus on Australian Indigenous studies and community development. She is mother of 2 boys and a meditation facilitator for Open Heart Meditation in Launceston. She looks to combine her love for writing/storytelling and meditation to offer community programs focused on young peoples who struggle to identify their purpose and belonging in an oftentimes confusing world. You can find her on Facebook at Open Heart Medita-tion Launceston Caroline Seipp or contact her by email at carolineopenheart@gmail.com.

Logan David Siler grew up in Fresno, CA. He is a full-time student Islamic studies teacher at New Horizon Middle School in Pasadena, CA. He became an activist at 17 and over the last 14 years has worked with Food Not Bombs, co-founded the Collective for Arts Freedom and Ecology (an activist community space in Fresno), and has worked as an outreach worker to the homeless in Fresno, San Francisco, Oakland and in Pasadena, where he currently lives with his wife and two children. Logan holds a BA in World History from San Francisco State University and an MA in Islamic studies from Bayan Claremont. Logan is a musician, a gardener, and avid hiker.