think, if someone were to be given
a softer heart,
one that was able to feel the soul
in everything
~
we came when called just enough times
that the abode before us consented to transform our lives
a place where love literally throbs,
the heart and soul of the structure that is the centre of our lives
all of us have become so much more and less than we were, here.
~
the centre has become my centre
and has captured the centre at the centre of me
it spills over its edges into the rest of my life and
makes the rest of my life part of itself too
i am pulled here unyieldingly
as though in the arms of a vortex spinning so fast i can’t even tell
where it begins and where i end
there is nothing i feel that doesn’t get resolved
once i’ve come back to my centre;
not a single worry that isn’t smoothed, a fear that isn’t untangled
once i’ve been here at my core
~
the people here are like the sound inside a seashell,
telling stories of separate drops flowing together to their ultimate end,
each one making an impression on my heart
~
this place makes me face those things about myself that i would rather ignore, such as my obvious unworthiness
but of course, that is exactly why i’ve come
~
brother, you might do it better than me
and you might know something i don’t
but i won’t hold it against you since you are here to show me what i could be, not what i am not
and thank God, thank you, for giving us this place
to come to.
This poem, written shortly after the fifth anniversary of the opening of the Ismaili Centre Toronto, is meant to capture the deep meaning that spaces of community and worship can bring to our lives over time, as well as the newfound meaning we can obtain from the seemingly familiar by engaging on many different levels. This piece is a followup to the original “the centre (2014)”, available to read here.
Some news begins to settle,
quietly,
in the places where disbelief has left its footprint
~
you’ve gone, but in leaving you’ve taken me
one, maybe two steps further along in this life
i think i understand why they say, shukhar,
thanks
~
i knew you, once upon a time,
or at least,
i thought i knew you a little bit
and now,
but now,
i understand there is little that was what it seemed
~
it’s like a single thread unravelling from a sweater;
one minute, it’s fine, and the next, there’s a gaping hole
except that the hole i feel isn’t in me,
it’s in the fabric of life itself
and life is coursing through,
pulling me upwards in its path
one thing comes over and again to mind:
koi aapse agar kuch maange, to usse dedo, aakhir, yehi to hai zindagi
if someone asks you for something,
then give it,
after all, this. is. life.
this is life,
this is life,
the one time we can love, and breathe, and aspire
the one time we can rise above our human selves
to fulfil the hopes and desires of another being
the one time we can ourselves be
compassionate; merciful
~
what did i give you,
you, who suffered
unknown to me?
what did i shower on you then,
that i now deserve to pick like fruit
the truth of your hard-lived example?
~
someone suffered, deeply, quietly,
but we did not know his mind
someone struggled, beautifully,
and we are uplifted with admiration
that we thought we knew him, even for a day.
* * *
A childhood friend has passed away. This piece is a reflection on life, death, and everything in between. Shukhar (among other things) is often said upon a person’s death, by those who follow the Shia Imami Nizari Ismaili tariqa (interpretation) of Islam (and by others Muslims well).
i take up space inattentively over two seats,
legs jumbled, in the midst of thought
riding home underground,
writing in my notebook
hello, beautiful
a short latino man intrudes
with a smile or with a leer — i can’t decide
at one time i might have
cringed reactively; strange creep
but today i smile
what does it take from me to be gracious?
here is an opportunity to live
up to what he claims to see in me
he leaves the subway car,
perhaps in search of another
to teach something to
~
does the tree look down at the shade-seeker in disdain?
does the bird turn up his beak at the admirer and say,
shut your ears,
you are not worthy
to hear me?
if beauty is with you
it is by no effort of yours
~
and did he not say those words to me
while i was holding the pen?
when else am i beautiful,
if not when being what i am?
when else am i beautiful,
if not when beyond myself,
if not when living in you?
~
thank you,
man from the subway;
thank you very much!
tea steeped too long becomes bitter
fruit ripened too long makes waste
a candle impatiently pushes his covering out of the way to join his wick in union with sweet air,
only to drown in himself and die
~
i can never be worthy;
i can never thank you enough
i can never wholly appreciate the gifts you give
~
how can too much love engender hate?
when love is scarce, i breathe more deeply to take you in
when you give me some, my hands join in thanks of their own accord;
my spine strong, in harmony with you
but
when it doesn’t end,
when you are too kind to me,
i fall
into inertia, unmoving
my eyes vacant
my heart, inflexible
~
i hate me
this unbeautiful, ungrateful
child
i try not to go near you,
because you remind me of everything i am not,
everything i can never be
i don’t call your name
i don’t ask for your hand
i don’t journey to your house;
i lock myself in mine
if i move an inch i will bump into you
if i see a mirror, i need avert my gaze
i hate me when i am not like you;
this unbeautiful, ungrateful
child.
saara 