Journeyings

February 17, 2007 in Abdur Rahman's Poetry, Poems of Love, Poems of Travel, The Poet's Eyes, The Poet's Tongue...

Peace, one and all…

I’m currently at work, which is unusual for a Saturday, as I’m preparing the handouts for teaching.  Here are some of my latest poetic reflections, written on the train this afternoon (which was packed with people going into Cardiff to shop).

Enjoy and may Allah make them useful.

Another Journey Home

Another journey home.
Noisy voices on a noisy train.
People speaking,
their words a blur.
Life’s hustle and bustle
unfolding around me.

Some are happy, some sad.
Some are in company,
some utterly alone.

We all travel together.
How many reflect on the end
we are all rushing towards?

When the train arrives
the doors will open
and, as in death,
we will leave this place
our journey complete.

At the end of the journey
my beloved is waiting.

And then an altogether different journey
shall at last begin…

Throwing Pebbles

Being a poet
is like standing upon the shore
throwing pebbles into the sea.

Each poem recalls the pebble’s brief flight,
that passing moment of beauty,
before it leaps into the Ocean’s wide embrace.

The poems I have thrown
across life’s wide sea
now rest gently in my Beloved’s arms,
amidst the soft swaying
of these forgiving ocean depths.

No Joy in Flight

There is no joy in flight.
When you run away from yourself,
the world turns grey.

There can be no pleasure in scenery
whilst you drag your life through
sorrow and anger and narrowness.

Stop for a moment.

Turn and face your demons,
for the light of day
shall leave them uncloaked
as the tiniest of imps.

Once you have learned to look
into the mirror of the heart,
you will see
it is also a window,
a lens.

And, this lens will show you many things
of the ways of man, woman and earth.

I Language I Cannot Understand

Some are saddened
by a language they cannot understand.

For myself, I am made glad
because my heart can carve such unfamiliarity
into any shape I choose.

Inside the wide realm of imagination
these tongues of mystery can become
sonnets of Love,
or robes of magic.

And, if I can do fashion such thought-shapes
from this colourful myriad of words,
then so can we all.

Thus, if you would understand the hearts of others,
let them interpret their own words,
and tell their own stories.

Ma’as salama,
Abdur Rahman