The First Ramadan, Dhu Al-Novemberish 2005

This is my ninth Ramadan since having been blessed with a blessing so deep that I cannot begin to describe it to the degree I would like to. I could write a million sentences and no one would yet know how far I have come since accepting Islam as a young woman 30 years ago, a woman who would one day be the pround parent of three dear people, my children Fatima, Sarah and Ali and whom I trust will all follow me and exceed me in their Islam. 


Eight years ago in Ramadan of 2005, I was about to undergo a change in my psyche that was thorough and explicit and real.

It isn't important to know every detail about the prerequisites of my Islam except to say that they are populated by significant dreams (I cowered in front of the destruction and threw myself down upon the ground in worship long before I would ever actually do that), significant people (my mother who said she did not believe Jesus, SA (Isa) was God when I explained to her that I had embraced Islam), significant milestones (when I realized that no one in the 7th century could have explained human reproduction in such finite detail) and significant signs (my fantastic stumble into the world of mathematical wonders known to many as the miracle of the number 19) as well as one very important visit from a group of believers who told me (when I was very young) that they were "following him." 

It is critical to understand that through 22 years of searching, questioning, experimenting that throughout it all there was within me that mustard seed's worth of sincerity.  It was planted by my mother one afternoon as she handed me green bean seeds to plant and she said a prayer to the Creator.  Little did I know then that she was speaking in code not only to the Creator but hopefully, to the future "me".  She said that now she had done her work (prepared the soil, planted the seed, watered it), it was time to do "his".  I remember that day as if it were yesterday and send greetings to her in her grave.  O Mom!  How I look forward to seeing you soon!  What glorious conversations we shall have and I hope you are as proud of me as I am grateful to you to have taken the time and the risk to be completely honest with me about "God".

In the summer before Ramadan of 2005, I began having a series of dreams.  These were not ordinary and they almost could not be described as dreams.  They were more like revelations.  During these night time episodes (how many were there...I have no idea) I would see the world and know the world and understand everything about it.  The feeling cannot be adequately described here or anywhere.  It is the kind of thing that I know other people have experienced and it is only they who might be able to confirm and witness to you what I am saying here (if my witness is not enough for you). 

I would awaken from these dreams and rush to the kitchen in our apartment in Beirut in order to get a pen or pencil to write down the information I had received in the dream (that seemed to have been infused into my mind) that I knew would solve all the problems in the world if I could share them.  Every time this happened, I would be completely unable to write down even a phrase.  It was truly frustrating but at the same time, I was full of a kind of elation that happens only once in a lifetime (as a stage in purification i.e. religious progression).  You can only go there once and it is this milestone from which a person cannot ever turn back.  You might say, where the rubber meets the road.  In Islam it is said that you must kill a person who turns away from it but I am here to say that if a person turns back when they have reached this point, they might as well be dead because they have truly dropped the ball.  It is a metaphorical punishment, no more and no less.  No real muslim who is worth their weight in salt or salmon, would kill another muslim for this thing called "losing one's faith" which in fact is not much to lose.  It is certitude you don't want to throw out with the bathwater, faith is expendable up to that point and in fact, it is a necessary stage in one's legitimate climb to the heights of knowledge (a much better form of what is known nowdays as "religion").

I will insert here but only to pepper the story as it should be with a dose of reality, that I was at that time fighting a dependence on chemical weapons.  I had lied to just about everyone I know about the real nature of my existence which was seriously askew at that time.  'nuff said about that and my pneumothroraxes and palimpsests.

When Ramadan rolled around that year, I was really primed.  I was miserable with remorse about my life's failures, my moral lapses but full of a powerful desire to understand.  So powerful that I begged Allah to fill me in, to make it clear for me, to sign the deal.  I actually wrote that down, encrypted as a poem and will go back and send along a link to that because it is indeed buried in this blog way, way back (as are so many of the back story stories). 

I was unable to fast that Ramadan.  This much I knew but I so desperately wanted to be released from my spiritual exile that I myself had volunteered for (as are all people who use chemical intoxicants).Anyone who thinks they can get closer to "God" after a few hits or a glass of wine is plain and simple, more intoxicated than they suspect and they need not bother getting drunk. 

I lost the battle after only a week.  I drank an entire bottle of wine.  No doubt I had started thinking about it the first day of the fast.  Forget the foodstuffs and abstinence from cusswords.  I was at the nadir and in the literal cross hairs of the devil himself.  I was trying to read the Quran as you are supposed to in Ramadan but that was a miserable failure.  I went to my bookshelf, feeling pretty much hopeless and happened upon my Nahjul al Balagha. 

Now, most non muslims don't hear much about the good old Nahj.  It isn't what you would say, common knowledge that there is this other incredibly important book out there that represents what we in the know refer to as The Ahl Bayt (the family of the last prophet i.e. immediate family).  That is perhaps an oversimplification but when it comes to a book that translates in English as "The Peak of Eloquence"...well.  My description cannot bear the weight of that!

I found the Nahj some years before when I was in a bookstore in Beirut in a neighborhood where it is said the hostages had been sequestered for so many years.  I asked the owner if he knew anything about the "Shia Quran".  He looked at me and said, "There is no such thing as a Shia Quran.  You might however want to read this," as he led me to the two volume works which are a collection of the sermons, sayings and letters of the single most important Imam in all of Islam after the prophet and the prophet's daughter, Ali ibn Abi Taleb, pbut.  I bought it and went home and tried to read it.

Yea, right.  Anyone who has ever picked up the Nahj will testify to the fact that it is a difficult book to penetrate.  Not all that many people ever do.  I tried again a few times to read it but to no avail. 

In Ramadan 2005 however, I went back to it in lieu of being able to stomach the Quran (how it bored me by then!).  I started to read.  I didn't stop for two weeks.  Night and day, between loads of laundry and trips to take the kids to school in Hamra.  I couldn't put the thing down and this is testified to by the many scholars (both muslim and non) who have through the years related that it is a book that takes you back in time to the days of the last prophet and his progeny, pbut (which means, "peace be upon them") and transports you as if you can hear the sound of the swords clashing and arrows whirring through the air at the battle of Siffin. 

By the time I finished the Nahj, Ramadan was almost over.  And I was filled with the knowledge that my miracle was nearing completion.  I guess you could call it "a rapture" because there is no doubt, I was filled from head to toe with a feeling that the prayer I had extended a few weeks before, the request I had made to be "filled in" on a few curious details...had been answered.

I told my husband who at the time was pretty frustrated with me that I understood what up until that time had eluded me.  I explained to him that we had to begin to be observant (rather than 'ignore-ant) muslims.  We would have to begin to pray and never stop until we left this world and joined the dead in wait for judgement. 

He wept.  He agreed.  I watched him pray in those early morning hours for the first time in our entire marriage.  I told him Salaam wa alaikum for the first time as well and this is a matter that still shocks me to this day.

But that isn't all. 

We packed up the car as was our usual in order to spend the Eid with our family "down south".  Kids, bookbags and my faithful dog Bijou in the back of the Range Rover.  No stop along the way at the liquor store either which had become our habit in the past. 

I was in a state of I don't know what you'd call it but it's a bit hazy from here.  All I know is that I woke up on Eid morning and told my husband, "I'm done.  I will never drink again."

He said, "I believe you."

I explained to him the sign I had received in the night in the form not of a dream but a vision within a dream:

There was a tree and upon that tree were several large green fruits.  They were perfect and one of them was for me and I knew it.  I reached for it and there was light all around.

I then read the Quran from cover to cover as it should be read.  I finished just days before the Israeli invasion of 2006 and understood if not every word, I understood that I would need to do it again, and again and again.  It is a fruit that never loses its complex sweetness.  It may be difficult to sit down and do, but it is definitely not boring.  I look forward to and seek for its inner workings, comparisons and explanations. 

This year will mark my eighth completion (once per year except 2006 as 2005 bridged with the second Ramadan of 2006 and we were a bit distracted by the war).  I cannot imagine what would have happened to us all had I not been prepared for this brutal exile in the country where I was born but where originates the most horrific hatred of Allah and Islam that has become institutionalized and normalized.  I cannot tell you how many people I have run into on the internet who have said to me when I have been explicating things, "Why don't you go back to your country then!" 

And that is the "God's Honest Truth".  I swear it.  And if you understand the nature of an oath in Islam you will know that is a powerful swear.

Ode to the Bar Code


At the Canyon Cash 'n Carry

Liquor & Penny Candy store,

between the soda pop chiller

and the other under the register

where a total came up 5c 10c 25c

through a peek-a-boo window -

was the best electric shock in town.

This was before we were grounded,

before cable TV, almost before Elvis.



One hand here, the other there

swinging for a second on the two

articles of faith -

the freezer and the fridge

and a shock zipped up both arms

cha ching cha ching

ooooooyeah! Felt good. But bad.

Us kids made fine lightning rods.

Myrtle Wood hanged the cash up to dry

on a clothes line out back

like a christmastree garland:

the washed and pee'd on cash

and sometimes, someone's pants.

[24.43] Do you not see that Allah drives along the clouds, then gathers them together, then piles them up, so that you see the rain coming forth from their midst? And He sends down of the clouds that are (like) mountains wherein is hail, afflicting therewith whom He pleases and turning it away from whom He pleases; the flash of His lightning almost takes away the sight. -The Glorious Quran, The Light

http://www.sciencedaily.com/videos/2006/1011-mysteries_of_thunderstorms.htm

The Ephemera Game

I must think on it.

A bit of lost property,
trinket and trove outlast
memory, past progressive
ends with an ing
date rape "as in"
not suspected:
a rehab project up in old Bisbee.

The world
belongs to the war weary,
to the established perplexity
of exile, to that

and all that comes forward
honors and honors and honors
blesses and blesses, blesses.
A moth touch tests and teaches.

Empire

No one wants
to be about here
anymore, dull drivel
painstakingly normal.

It's far flung Xing-zhou!
Tse Tse Frou Frou!

C   H   I  N  A

shipping the train
flashes an iron
clad grin, old school
monnikers blast
through Benson
toward Deming,
the Eastern Seaboard
to the big time: tarnation.

http://idyllwildtowncrier.com/2009/11/20/obituary-michael-kabotie/

And then, the Swine Flu

Ding

Could that bells taken apart

stretched mm angel barks

appreciated, adored,

drenched in golden golden-ness

drip dropped, dangled

as though bubbled

glide towards heaven

synchronized, split off

from blast & smelt & smoulder

quick flown and flashed

not drum, not singsong

just a pouring

 up like that

 shock ink mess

of sound, tender and lost.

but of course

the stars, the precious moon

a next stop.

Crossing




For a week the blood

smear as deer had

dragged herself

on broken legs to a side

of the road and lay there

like a hand swipes

a frozen window.



There she watched the last cars

and shooting stars, took a final hit

off the moon where no Injuns

ever stood either and she promised.



Praiseworthy Appearance



On Friday night

the fox speeds up

to make it -

away from the town

full of light and actions.

The way he smooths on by -

a little train of feet, film

made of fur and tail

in one brilliant line.

Left to right as if

a switch lifted and the chute

opened through which

he aimed and shot.

Sleep Heresy




Here, my ears ring uncontrollably.

I am not sure if it is the electricity

or the avarice of my mind waking up

to the fact: another day, get used to it.

How I crave sleep, how embarrassed

I am when at last I don’t turn off the TV

so sleep isn’t exactly what it is that comes,

more like a moth on a curtain

waiting to get out, hoping.

Just a Quick Reminder

I dreamt a donkey and a tunnel of snow,
we went up into the places
crawled through the openings
up into the nooks and the crannies.
Oh! it lasted so long that
when I awoke to pray
the fajr prayer, it seemed
years and years had passed
but when I returned
to bed nothing but a cold
dark sleep until the sun
and breeze, until then.

R***** at February



The snow at night turns blue, sparkles

between the two states of ice and art

as sweetly sings a sparrow near dark,

a moon side of us, a dusk distance

and she is definitely dying, we know this.

All of the water in the world spies

for her, steals color and in that

rainbow of teardrops, a breath is counted.

We each ask Allah to give her a year or two

from our balance as slaves might do,

bartering our beatings as if this will suffice,

as if that could stop all that is random,

as if the snow stops as it does for an hour

to give us time to wander home.

One Poet to Another in a Small Town

I wonder, did you ever write one about our

tryst in which we awaken after many years

Rip Van Winkle-like in Safeway’s snack shop .

Here is where adultery stops and whispers

into the ears of old birds in line at the pharmacy window

until I realize this one belongs to me and begin.

As far as the lovemaking goes, yes there are memories

yet those were merely acts in the night by dove light.

I was never so lonely and alone, as all adulteresses

naturally are, usually in tears, broken, beaten down.

Homing in on hope, relief, sorrow. Paring it down to pain.

Now here in this well-lit town square near the salads and slaws

we sit with cold cuts and those within earshot

struggle to comprehend what we don’t bother to hide.

You talk about Gilbert and Gerber , I about their signatures.

We are famous today near the half-off –Christmas-bulk!

We’ve both known so many of our kind as if

you weren’t even one of them and I just a nurse

moonlighting while people lean and stoop to hear

our clandestine clamor about blood sugars and petit mal!

Yet we throw caution to the wind every time we meet

blurting out narratives for which we’ve kept in touch

all these years, taking the occasional pulse of an old secret.

Sandy Hook




We are above the rooftops again,

near the trees on the outskirts of town,

here we are yet again

drifting in helicopters, the day is bright

or cold, people are led about

as if on ropes, tied together.

It is almost Christmas.

How those who once I knew, disowned me.
They thought too little or not at all
busy with their decorations and babies.
If I mention them now it is only to invite
them to their old age, to the round-up.
We need more clowns in cannons.

Heat Seeking

Despite the war:  harmonicas.
We'd have been who we are
only taller, our shirts less worn.
Scriptures are rewritten
into dictionaries of the absurd
before they matter.

This is the moment in time
that to forget
is to remember strongly
the real myth
a mirror locks on
to the target, bam
and it is over.

The Sound of Olatayo




I've known people who were passengers

on high-jacked planes.

They were assholes before they hit Libyan airspace

and probably still are.

I've seen a black man

come out of the sea

like an aboriginal -

Mexican sand on his face,

hair twisted into tribal knots.

It was the week after he stormed out

of the Que Pas, a community college diner

where I met Olatayo Sowandi too,

watched him and the other Nigerians

as they listened to the sound

of foreigners eating.

Not a word between them and I recall

how sweet their silence felt

when I was in it with them.

As Mahdi busted out of the sea

I remembered his anger that day

when the Arabs at the cafe -

Saadi Sartawi the Kuwaiti, Faisal the Libyan, Wassim
the Palestinian brothel owner's kid from Egypt -

kept calling him abed in conversation

instead of just calling him

the Sudan-ee because he was

definitely not their slave, he was just

from Africa and knew

how to make an impression

when walking out of the sea at Kino Bay.   





Reprint from 2006 but written sometime in the 80/90's most likely, Remembering the Sudanese before I knew what that meant.  Almost Juvenalia by now.  

"Abed" is literally "slave" in Arabic and a common name in terms of being a slave to Allah (Ab'dallah) however it also carries a certain connotation of bigotry when used by Arabs in reference to those with 'dark skin'.  Arabs tend to be either comfortable with the usage and not necessarily bigoted when using it or 2) we as outsiders to the language impose our own meaning on it and hence we feel and perceive a bigotry that is actually our own.  Not sure really but at the end of the day I choose the alternative meaning which is Mahdi saw it neither way as they were all muslims involved in the cafe incident and he didn't like being considered differently from the other muslims as we consider ourselves as one type, all slaves, all equal.  My experience in the muslim world has shown me that the Sudanese overall are highly respected and some of the most gracious of all the muslims.  This is a view that is shared by a majority of muslims worldwide.  I find it to be a nice poem to revisit upon my return from Liberia. 

The irony of this piece is uncovered later (as is the case with poems from the heart) that "Mahdi" itself has profound meaning within Islam.  I won't go into that particular detail except to say Mahdi in this poem has a saving grace.

Eat Fish, Monrovia Liberia W. Africa

A First Walk

The poverty of Africa
is an engine, a pool
of mud where birth and death
mean mostly the same.
I cannot begin to understand
her ranting on the corner:
She sent her boy to cut me!
her jaw abscessed for weeks now
as a nurse I beg to look in
between her clenched and mighty teeth-
yellow polish
on her black black hands
studded with grains of sand
from a bottle nearly empty
congealed -
what kind of jaundiced beauty
this?  How terrifying.
As passers-by stop to stare.

-at me, not her.

True Love America

Begins near 20 and 24th
streets in Monro-via,
in front of the JFK
Memorial hospital-
People go there to die and work,
limping in and out
on one leg, maybe two
but most never go and the girl
at the bus stop sells used towels,
your uncle Ned's pajamas
to a Godwin or Cornelius.
These clean people have hearts
inside their hearts
bigger than the Mets versus the Yankees
times the Sox.
Their love is ne plus ultra.