The Defilers of Maqams

1. If The Kaaba …

If the Kaaba is a diamond,
The defilers of maqams are conspiring to pry off the gemstones
That dot her ornate setting,

If the Kaaba is life,
The defilers of maqams are conspiring to choke her breath,

If the Kaaba is the sun,
The defilers of maqams are conspiring to eclipse her moons,

If the Kaaba is justice,
The defilers of maqams are conspiring to conceal her mercy,

If the Kaaba is the universe,
The defilers of maqams are conspiring to rewrite her history,

If the Kaaba is a writer,
The defilers of maqams are conspiring to be her censors,

If the Kaaba is Rapunzel,
The defilers of maqams are conspiring to cut off her golden tresses.

That is want they want.

But who can they harm but themselves?
And what can they defile but their own name?

(No.1, from 'The Nineteen Verses'. 'maqam' in this context means the grave and tombs of the Companions of the Prophet and the Saints that dot the earth like bright pearls of divine grace)

I am not diverting from love and the theme of love. This is what we call tough love. It is still love, but this embodiment of love has sharp cutting edges. It is the opposite of hate and is gamely waiting to give the defilers of maqams its gentle loving attention.

The Writ of Love

"...Preferring the company of love and its orderly wilderness,
When you were lost and love called out your name first."

The Writ of Love
Oh love, they say
That I am ill in love,
But if love is my illness,
I do not want to be cured.
So call no doctor,
Attend not to my pain,
Inform no friends,
Worry not in vain.

For in the Writ of love,
Hurt precedes joy,
Poverty the precondition of wealth,
And sadness exists
Only to accentuate joy.

The Writ of Love was born
Upon a moment when
The Light of Creation was forged,
And the Maker gazed and permitted
Himself to fall in love with His creation.

You speak of love,
But verily, love spoke your name first.
You desire love,
But truly, love desired your company first.
And we stand between the Maker and the Made,
Desiring no heaven or entry through its pearly gates.
Preferring the company of love and its orderly wilderness,
When you were lost and love called out your name first.

(No.41, from 'How Beautiful Love Is')

Resist the Ambition to Climb the Moral Mountain

Moral Mountain II
The problems with staking your tent
On a moral high ground
Are the altitude sickness, frostbites,
Frequent avalanches
And the likelihood
That a sudden gust would
Propel you, your tent,
And your precious morals
Over the precipice.

(No.128 from 'the Dam.SunSun.Ana')

Not my best friend would say I am a particularly moral person. Indeed, some may even suggest that my reluctance to draw a clear line between black and white, good and evil makes me rather unscrupulous. I hedge my bets, they say, right to the cliff edge of morality.

Despite this however, I am prone to subconsciously judge people. Outside, I may spout liberal and tolerant views, inside however, my mind is going tsk, tsk, tsk, shame, shame, shame. Years ago, when my brother got divorced, I staked my claim on the highest moral ground. Reminding myself that in my faith, divorce is described as the worst permissable act you can do. The very pillars of heaven are said to shake when the husband recites the proscribed words divorcing his mate. From this moral mountain, I looked down and passed judgement on these feeble human failings...

Well, so much for my morality. In 2007, I found myself in front of the Qadi (Judge) of the Shariah Court in Kuala Lumpur, testifying the solemn words to breach the marriage vows which I had readily entered into just 5 years back.

So don't judge too quickly, my friends. You know not what Fate may have in store to test your personal convictions. Resist the ambition to climb the moral mountain. Just because it is there, doesn't mean that you must climb it. You do have a choice. Choose wisely.

It's The Thought That Counts. REALLY?

2nd Posting for the day. In honour of the coming month of Ramadhan the Blessed, and my dear departed Mother who passed away more than 8 years ago last May.

I simply don't do enough charity. And I am just too good at rationalising my scrooge-ism. My late mum, God bless her peaceful soul, is my direct opposite. She used to scour the hinter lands up north, especially during the fasting month of Ramadhan, looking for the deserving poor. Not the sort of poor I-only-eat-rice-with-salted-fish, but the so-poor-that-I-am-not-sure-I-have-anything-to-eat category of poverty. Her name was Arba'yah. Her siblings and friends called her Ba'yah. Her nieces and nephews called her Makcik(Auntie). She did not wring her hands and despaired. She stepped out of her comfort zone and she changed things, leaving the world a better place for many whose lives she touched.

May God bless all our mothers who show that sometimes, just thinking about it, simply isn't good enough.

It Is Never Too Late

The Wasteland
In the wasteland of thy material afflictions
In thy overflowing cup of blame and sorrow
In thy rapture of all things hollow
Know this if you must know one thing

That it is never too late
To turn love from hate
To save joy from misery
To pry thyself free
Of false gods and false liberties.

And that,
As a man
Or as a woman
His Beautiful Face
His Merciful Gaze
His Enduring Embrace
Awaits thee,
Wherever thy gaze may turn.

(No.101, from 'the Dam.SunSun.Ana')

If you have sinned, don’t worry. Because it is never too late. If you broke your vows, if you have given up on love, if you smoke too much, if you drink like a fish, if you treat friends poorly, if you are ungrateful, it is still never too late. We all make mistakes. But the worse mistake we can ever make is to think that “Oh no, it is too late.”.

Because there is always God, there will always be time for you. To make amends. To be better. Not to change but to reveal the best that you can be.

The Spiders of Mercy

Life rests upon a knife's edge. My breath is more fleeting and tenuous than the slimmest thread of a spider's web. Yet I regard myself as masterful. In truth, I am the one mastered. A fat fly struggling to cope with mortality on a sticky and infinite web... Mastered by the alluring illusion that I call the world. But help is on the way!

This world is a web,
And sitting in the middle of the web is Mercy,
The web is stretched from horizon to eternity,
Between two branches of the Lote Tree.

Most people seek dominion,
And they become entangled
In the cobweb of their
Need to dominate.

Others, ah, those bright fellows!
They submit to the Lord of Mercy,
And are given the license
To tip-toe between
Pre-Time to
Eternity.

If you see one of them,
Follow them and don’t
Let them out
Of your

Sight!

For they are

Worth more than gold,

Their eyes shimmer

With an ancient light,

Full of prose that shall

Never grow old.

(No.10 from current and untitled chapter)

I Don't Fake It

O’ Lord,
I don’t fake in my sinning,
So don’t You fake in Your forgiving,

O’ Lord,
I don’t play in being lost,
So don’t You be reticent in guiding me,

O’ Lord,
I am real in my infidelity,
So be real for me,

O’ Lord,
I am a fake
Only when I am awake,

So take me, o’ Lord,
In my sleep, or in
Your dreaming
Of me.

(No.9, from the current and untitled chapter. Written in my heart, after the rain, underneath the early morning sky, sunless while inside love slumbered)