Saqiseeker: July 2011

Twelve Moments

I have just completed this cycle of poems:

They all are about my relationship with my father, especially his passing. They are posted as if they go backwards in time. The idea is that one travels from the current landscape of emotion to the earliest memories. Some of these poems were written at the time of his passing, some a long time before but most were written in after 2007. I have indicated this when relevant.

The intention is for the reader to follow one poem to another, and thus build up layers of understanding as one time travels,. However, should you choose to skip from one to the other. It is entirely up to you.

Comments are always welcome.

Peeri/Mureedi

(twelfth moment)

Your mureeds come to me and say

“Your father was in my dream”

So you revert to your mystic ways

Tied to your golden thread.

You’re writing yourself into me.

Adaptation and reversion

Into things you wanted me to be

And things you could never foresee.

But you stay away from my dreams

For some reason we can’t talk,

Though that may be more than it seems

And your sufi soul needs expression, still.

By Ali. A. Naqvi

(Peeri/Mureedi is the South Asian tradition of holy men ( peer) who have devotees ( mureeds)

NOTE This is the beginning of a cycle of twelve poems written that explore the relationship I had with my father. I call this cycle the Twelve Moments. This may be personal but please comment. Also, the order is going to be chronologically backwards on the blog. So the last poem to the first. The aim is to walk back through my life to the first moment from the most recent. If you're reading this, you're at the beginning of the cycle.

The Voice

(eleventh moment)

I hear his voice no more.

Forty days since I shook him in the earth

I hear his voice no more,

Save snippets and sighs in the wood

Save echoes in the action of the day

I hear his voice no more

That arching voice

That planet splitting

Quantum clarity

Of a soul singing for its constructor

I hear his voice no more

Sat here, cross legged and calling.

By Ali A. Naqvi

Note: this was written forty days after the funeral, read at the ceremony for the fortieth day.

The Griever

(tenth moment)

He was spitting tears as he held jars of jasmine

The water was ready for the rite

But he couldn’t do it and he handed it to me

He could see I was ready for the rite

He whispered guidance to me

And we bathed my father

But he cried, like a brother, he cried like a son

Because my father would always help him

After the cars had gone

The duties done

I showered, prayed, then sat

Wondering when I would cry like a son.

By Ali A. Naqvi

Synchronicity

(ninth moment)

It was midnight and I was looking at my hands

They were empty, nothing to hold, indolent

It was midnight and life was hanging

And someone was about to call

It was 3am. The peace came.

The sudden spike of relief

The solid stable certainty of right

And someone was about to call

It was 5am. The next day.

The two engines on each side were drumming

And though I had not let myself say it

I raised my hands and called

From Him we come and to Him we return.

By Ali A.Naqvi

In the ward

(eight moment)

He sat slack hat,

Rumpled back,

Jacket I bought him,

Doodling on the card,

Drip in left arm.

He swept names of God

Down on every gap

Built the centre boss

And then the buckler,

Firewall against the

Wrong cells inside.

I left him fighting

On his shield or with it

and awaited the homecoming.

By Ali A. Naqvi

Note: This was written in 2005, during my father's treatment.