"dervishes" poems
Hijab is my crown
shaped in a circle
around my head
like that of a full moon
bringing light
from the One
who has commanded me
to wear it
to my face
Hijab is my crown
shaped in a circle
around my head
like a merry-go-round
rotating with a joyful force
in places near and far
illuminating its power
a reflection of my soul
and inner beauty
Hijab is my crown
shaped in a circle
around my head
the way whirling dervishes move
we're so high
aspiring nearness to Allah Masha'Allah
our act of wearing hijab daily
deserving of much respect
and Insha Allah
The Seventh Heaven
Hijab is my crown
shaped in a circle
around my head
like a spinning wheel
many made
in different colors
and in different textures
each brightening the world
and when wearing it
like Khadijah (AS), Fatimah (AS), and Aisha (RA)
attracts attention of the best kind
Hijab is my crown
shaped in a circle
around my head
like Big Ben
I'm so high
dignified
a visible ambassador
of Islam
saying no to immodesty
and saying yes to our Majesty
Hijab is my crown
shaped in a circle
around my head
like a halo
starting my day with Bismillah
and looking into the mirror
to carefully donn it
I remember
I'm doing this to help men
married and unmarried
from sinning
and to protect myself
from impurity and immoral acts
as
Hijab is my crown
for me a Queen
By: Najwa Kareem
Jan 31, 2021
Jan 31, 2021 at 2:42 PM UTC
Outside,
the snow is serenely falling
its illuminated resplendence
vying with that of the full moon
suspended in the silent night sky.
Inside,
it is just as silent
the only sounds the occasional spark and crackle
of the logs in the fireplace.
And two hearts harmoniously beating.
Wisps of smoke coyly rise from the sandalwood incense
gracefully whirling in the air like dervishes,
the room redolent with the fragrance of serenity
As I repose on the couch,
your head upon my lap,
you hold one hand against your rhythmically beating heart;
while with the other
I absently play with your hair.
There are no thoughts,
only heart thinking.
There is no speech,
only heart speaking.
There are no words,
only heart spilling.
~
You slowly rise from my lap and look through my eyes
and into my soul.
When I come to speak,
you gently place a loving finger against my lips,
whispering
“shhh“
Time revolves all around us,
yet within us — stillness;
the silence palpable.
Our souls become one
with the other,
with the tranquility of the night,
with the gently falling snow.
Our breathing falls in sync to a rhythm known only to the cosmos.
At the end of our inhales,
there you are.
there I am.
And then you speak..
three words..
Three words that contain the universe within them:
“This is bliss“
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 9:44 AM UTC
Surrealism gone Awry
Watch, I open my skull on pneumatic hinges,you must have a hungry compulsion to peer inside and see the steamy tomato soup.
There is a certain blasphemy in believing.
See the dictator swill Avalanche in his mouth.
By decree the narcotics language
of surrealism states, that in the hierarchy of apples
Those closest to the sun murmur the sweetest, and in dreams the diabolical devil is obliged to meet you, but a committee of angels will arrive with Uzis loaded with enthusiasm... In time!
Surrealism is the proprietor
Of flowers fervently whirling like dervishes until... It is a place where I narrate lovers melting like pennies at the sight of each other, where home appliances long for your touch.
My fetish is my imagination, wild, wild imagination extravagant as your birth child,
Gaudy and beautiful like a coach built Cadillac by Saoutchick.
Where everything utter is true.
Welcome wide eyed wonder
To my simple things,
Fuel injected heart
Needle and thread
Enameled soul made from a French mind
Small animal pelts and bones for superstition
German precision
With the eye of a Xerox machine.
So one emphatically dream
Emphatically live
Emphatically believe everything uttered is true.
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 11:19 PM UTC
Where lonely camels roam, dunes in darkness lay
And myriads of stars glow in disarray.
Solely the morning star, lone wanderer, shines bright
And thus illuminates this dark Moroccan night.
As the gleaming eye of heaven rises in the East,
wake the weary nomad and his weary beast.
And as it reaches zenith, the heat burning the flesh,
they reach their destination: the vibrant Marrakech.
Explosion of colors, spices galore
Sold on bazaars selling infinitely more
A snake tamer plays his tunes in a trance
and the dervishes do their habitual dance.
And with every turn, every swish, every sway,
Unfolds like a dream the Moroccan day.
'Til the sun sets again in this wondrous land
To darken once more the kingdom of sand.
Jan 28, 2017
Jan 28, 2017 at 6:33 PM UTC
Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days,
Muffled and dumb like barefoot dervishes,
And marching single in an endless file,
Bring diadems and ****** in their hands.
To each they offer gifts after his will,
Bread, kingdoms, stars, and sky that holds them all.
I, in my pleached garden, watched the pomp,
Forgot my morning wishes, hastily
Took a few herbs and apples, and the Day
Turned and departed silent. I, too late,
Under her solemn fillet saw the scorn.
2.1k
amidst
azure autumnal skies,
a mellifluous tune
floats in ether
emanating from his golden flute.
even the falling leaves 🍂
on hearing such melancholic melody
pirouette like whirling dervishes
before kissing terra firma
the invisible flautist
is everywhere and nowhere,
so close,
yet so far.
he’s a lover, teaser, warrior and philosopher.
someone for whom
even mercurial time and fuzzy clouds sway in ecstasy,
to his unnerving rhapsody
© 2021
Oct 30, 2021
Oct 30, 2021 at 10:21 AM UTC
I buried them in a shallow grave
outside the sunroom where their cage hung
rain washed their bones into a deep earth cellar
Where I descend by night with my lone candle
to find them fixed in strata, yet not fixed
scaled claws striking Jurassic dragonflies
*My shadow flickers and dissolves
as I sit at the sunroom desk
Tiny scaled claws strike my head
Pinioned dervishes scold:
My suit of black and white feathers
my smooth hands and my scientist's smirk
my two-finger typing and opposable thumbs
my missing wings and manifesting teeth*
We dinosaurs live on, incantations of ancestral rebirth
templates used, discarded, and used again
as our sphere cycles on, now warming, now cooling
the uniforms change, the costumes evolve
but the sudden-death scrimmage is eternal.
Jul 18, 2012
Jul 18, 2012 at 1:52 PM UTC
Life: "There are days when we are open to beauty."
Some of them are not.
Life is a marvelous
Cat playing with
It's pray.
With us.
Praying.
For us?
Sometimes I love
To be taken
By it's sweet surprises.
Me thinks: "Taboos are there to remain intact!"
Tragically
Obedient
To the law
Of Attraction
We dance as infatuated
Dervishes dressed in trousers
Flowing forth. Toward each other's all pervading
Persistent exoplanets orbiting 'ur private passions: :
Knowing it' self, its potency
Penetrating our thoughts
Mighty male:
"Might
I
Satisfy You?"
I'm such
An obsolete
Amethyst, good for lucky charms and ready made domesticated potions.
Imploded desires rise and fall
Within the invisible canopy
Of our dreams and glances
Watch us!
They rise and fall
Magnetized
Elated Chalices
Rise and fall
Luminated
Fulfiled
Flawless
Unbreakable
Like legends
Love!!
Legends love to be loved
In silence
Of our hearts
Heard and ingrained
Deep within our souls.
In this modest mode I pretend to be
Bemused by little things tossing
And turning me around
Just to forget
your presence
And to remember
Your immortal spirit.
I yearn for you!
Surpressed passion is all I have;
And blue heaven arched upon
Spellbound portals. Sheer
Kan devour my hide in
Seek in the shade.
Moist
Of the first creative act
Blows the raven away
Along scented mahogany
At the modest shelter
Of our habitual insanity of
Sparks and stars
Bursting into
Flames. . .our
Suppressed desires. . .
Merging
~˘
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 4:30 PM UTC
Ghosts and Spirits whirl like dervishes
Caught and crammed into a soft metal silo
Freed from time but tied to space by a coil
Clinging to dream, the lucky few
Vacate the hive for a moment
A short minute for remembrance
Denied a quick forgetting
Or consigned to lonely park benches
Behind seldom opened doors
Locked in basements, difficult to enter
Segregated from the swarm
Yet cursed in cherished imprisonment
They never grow old
They envy the ones ignored
Those who are being forgotten
Breaking their chains for good
Melting into the atmosphere
Where they belong
Parting the dead sea
They crawl without a leader
Too numb to appreciate this unexpected exodus
Caring less for those left behind
Knowing that they, for all their loneliness
Are the blessed ones
Dec 26, 2010
Dec 26, 2010 at 3:07 PM UTC
whistling through the countryside
whirling leaves into dervishes neath elm trees
wrinkling ripples atop waterways
wrapping it's cold paws about our shins
wildly whisking during a thunderstorm
window panes rattle when it blows
whoosh is a whipping winds sound
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 3:58 AM UTC
In the pitched tent
the red coated troupe
and yellow buttoned clowns
drown within the spectators laughter
like cuckoos spit
lost in their swirl
I imagine morris dancers
perfunctory as whirling dervishes
far surpassing the circus masters revel
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 3:04 AM UTC
Like Winston Smith,
I think it’s time to start a diary.
Follow me now: it’s April in Oceania,
The cruelest month,
The silly season, printemps,
A regular I see London, I see France.
I see Winston’s Underpants.
If you catch my drift?
La Primavera: Vivaldi’s rocking the
Juke box and the vote, Botticelli’s painting,
A mural on Jerusalem's wailing wall.
My diary will be hard evidence of thought crime.
Thought crime: one of the more severe varieties of
Religious experience & the most psychotic form of mental illness,
In a category known as antisocial personality disorders.
Thought crime means never getting into any serious trouble,
Until you’re caught, can we at least agree on that?
So, we'd better add the DSM to our stack of essential literary classics.
The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders,
Published by the American Psychiatric Association,
Providing a common language,
A shrink’s Esperanto.
DSM-IV codes classify mental disorders.
The DSM: a Frommer’s travel guide &
User’s manual for life on planet Earth.
So, like Orwell's Winston, I start a diary of my own; but
Unlike Mr. Smith, I address my message to the here &
What’s happening now, not the future, not the past but
N-a-zayer, N-a-zither NOW.
That's right, I write for the present:
“If thought was ever free, it is not free now."
If truth exists it is a closely guarded secret,
Although McLuhan’s observations hide in plain sight:
*“The new electronic interdependence, recreates
The world in the image of a global village.”*
Which makes us all global village idiots.
We are no longer different from one another;
The age of groupthink is here.
I write to you from an age of security & surveillance,
Warrantless search and predator drones,
An age where no man is ever truly alone.
From an age of standardization, replaceable parts,
Whirling dervishes, dabblers in spin control,
Newspeak and doublespeak,
Atlas shrugged, drugged and fugged,
The new world order:
All but the faint of heart need apply, …
"I send greetings.”
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 3:56 PM UTC
Limits do not exist
They are creations of the mind
Time and Space do not exist
They are creations of the Mind
Fear on the ladder up the genome
Its every 2nd rung
And we can't seem to get rid of it.
Fear is the father of all destruction
Fear breeds ranks
Of Anger
Distrust
Paranoia
Violence
When faced with a radical new view
Fear does his dance
Hoping we will turn away
Or smash until comprehension is
No longer available.
Please check your number and dial again.
You have now entered
The
Void.
That place of Zen No-Thingness.
Here is the black where all colors
Are in the same space
At the same time.
Where there is no separation
One from another.
All co-exists harmoniously
And we consider the Dark side
To be the place of hell.
White is the absence of all color
Within it nothing exists at all
It is true oblivion.
And we consider the Light side
To be the place of heaven.
And yet
And yet
Fear declares that oblivion is the enemy
We must find any way possible
To become
Immortal.
(Dunt Dunt Duuunnn!)
Have you found Waldo yet?
We live in a paradoxical reality
Dictated by our Most Holy Lord
Fear
And His Most High and Mighty
Likes to keep us hiding in the dark
Longing for the light
While holding us in ignorance to the
True Nature
Of both.
Even when we glimpse it
If Fear gets to us before anything else
We turn our backs on the Truth
And try to destroy all evidence
Of its existence.
Maybe the way out
Is just to twirl
And keep twirling
So that Fear can't ever get into our view
And can't even get a hold on us.
Possibly the Dervishes have something
Going with their rites.
We would see
All
If we set our spirits
To twirling.
Don't worry about where
The music will come from.
The universe is already
Providing it.
May 2, 2010
May 2, 2010 at 9:23 PM UTC
it is all unknown
the sword and the stone
the alchemist and the butcher
surrounding each other in daylight’s mist
the embrace of moisture
the soft hue of summer
the solstice luster
starstruck teenagers with feelings undiscovered
embrace the aperture of the morning’s disarmament
i am spent and satiated by your touch
all forms of punishment are no longer enough
come and break my heart a thousand times
i am reminded of a simple line of poetry
the way the spring becomes its own harmony
dervishes twirl on the dusty sand
the cracked desert in your hand
i am nothing but thine own command
so send me where you think i belong
all our passages are free of charge
the safety of noah’s ark
the next boat that hits the mark
will surely be knighted by the oligarch
somebody else took over my mind
and now i can’t find the essence of the time
you are immaculate in your dissension
i am hesitant and full of suspicion
dimly lit streets filled with the smell of sulphur
the fumes make you gasp
and clench your throat in defensive tension
give me a minute and i’ll release this declension
ascension is inevitable
select the inexplicable feelings
and sever your attachment to that which lingers
in hurried anticipation
our actions are mere limitations
strong as stars our abstract applications
the serpent hour approaches
without a warning
i am turning inside out
please retract your fangs so i can kiss you
let me hold your head and whisper kindness
lovers need each other’s minds
to hear the sounds of breaking hearts
long for the burning bush to crash through your wall
long ago the night fall came and went
scents of longing in the shadows hidden
rid me of these western rhythms
serve your sentence in the police academy
articulate the addicts in their gatherings
of community based infrastructures
stark against the walls of cinnamon
so many classes that are uncommonly disparaging
the drill sergeants are still just as dangerous
Jan 3, 2017
Jan 3, 2017 at 2:10 PM UTC
one crisp morning commute
driving down Rodeo Blvd.
I came across a cloud of leaves
a city block long
hovering like hummingbirds in the street
jiggling to the beat
of each passing vehicle
caught up in the car's drafts
rush hour traffic
would not allow them to fall
hundreds of small green and yellow dots
standing at attention
waving like beauty queens
twirling like dervishes
leaping and spinning in pirouettes
doing cartwheels and somersaults
each tumble tickling my delight
as playful patterns emerged
you could see their musicality
fallen foliage dancing to a silent symphony
suspended in mid air
out of sync with reality
as I, in turn, drove through in slow motion
Nov 21, 2011
Nov 21, 2011 at 1:46 PM UTC
Swallows round steeples,
Indifferent as enlightened ones,
Purple robes in skies.
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 8:29 PM UTC
The bareness of Winter,
Skeletal branches,
Black and silver,
Chimes like a music box,
Like a melody stripped
Of frivolities, so the weightless
Chill in the air is life
At her most pure.
Summer's tension mounts,
Cacophonous nature
Or threatening silence,
And shanghais children,
The truly perceptive ones,
Into a game of tag,
Running like dervishes till lungs
Feel like burning.
Apr 29, 2011
Apr 29, 2011 at 4:56 AM UTC
I'm from the non-stop ticking of an active heart,
from Kleenex and star-gazing.
I'm from the crispness of fall on your tongue,
the old crab-apple tree, the wild growing lilacs.
I'm from twirling like dervishes and always running late,
from sweets and generality to now or never.
I'm from internalizing and erasing my words,
from being an oak tree in the storm and soaping my hands before washing them.
I'm from mile-high arches.
I'm from the coasts and the heartland, the old people and the new,
from spaetzle and goolash,
from never learning enough and right timing,
from the way a smile can light a room,
from the silent sound of a soul leaving its body.
I'm from musky basements and cabinets,
from dusty old books and torn old pages,
from sentiment as precious as a thousand years,
as rare as the sunset of yesterday.
Sep 6, 2012
Sep 6, 2012 at 11:35 PM UTC
Swallows round steeples,
Indifferent as enlightened ones,
Purple robes in skies.
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 7:10 PM UTC
on sundays i ask myself questions without question marks.
like: how did you figure out that i hum when i'm afraid.
like: why do my parents call themselves christians when my younger brothers sound racist at the dinner table without knowing the term.
like: how old is the term 'hipster', why do people name themselves after spit-upon-ground-up words, what is the number of swallows you could conceivably snap the necks of in an hour.
like: why
am i writing this.
do you remember talking about mental disorders and broken beer bottles on railroad tracks. do you remember wishing we were younger and then forgetting that in the haze of 'growing up'. do you remember asking me why i never wrote i with a capital and spewing on about the underlying self esteem issues that represented and why do you say that, you don't have any self esteem issues, do you shen. do you. do you remember talking about rubbed pink thighs and ladder arms and elbows too bent out of shape to hug someone. do you remember the month when i would only eat rosemary and olive oil bread and you didn't speak, not once.
some people write about bones and teeth and the skin scraped under nails when you blackout twice in a row. some people write about the decay of humanity, and some people blather into the air on buses, the stale air between business men and crying single mothers, some people blather and whisper and write about the space bar and aluminum foil and finding themselves when there is nothing to find, because that. that is quite a feat.
volcanoes and thunder storms, bolts of lightning and heavy clouds, heavy eyelids, lead coffin words and the whirling dervishes that spin holes into your palms sometimes. these are the things little girls are made of.
Jan 3, 2011
Jan 3, 2011 at 6:14 PM UTC
Living that life of yours,
Built on split-second decisions,
Intuition alone. You make my
Head spin, whirling dervishes,
Never stopping, never slowing.
Worry to happiness to love,
But no, always love. Never
Flickering nor wavering in
The face of your cold-shoulder.
Never, never.
Dec 11, 2010
Dec 11, 2010 at 8:05 PM UTC
The DJ nudges the track
The floor writhes with deafening silence
Headphones buzz in unison
Dancers gyrate in heated silence
Electronic feedback connects the mass
Colours bend with the vibe
Knees bow with increasing tempo
Eyes turn on spinal spin
Heads wane in the rollercoaster flow
The finger leaves the vinyl and points to his god
A raft of hands chases their Apollo fame
The floor fades as feet peddle in transience
'Check this out'
Expectant eyes open
A new path opens
Skies become whirling dervishes
Amorphous lands float by
Seas part to their spine
Rain does not pour
It invigorates
Cool is the rhythm
Shoulders hop and shake
Steam warms the soul
Sun evaporates and replenishes
‘The final track’
Adrenaline like a lightning strike
Un-bearing on mountain edge
Feet attracted to the ground
Legs now heavy
Head now full
Dazed
Headphones abandoned like a defeated army
The weary lovers of music stumble into the night airs
Oct 24, 2020
Oct 24, 2020 at 1:42 PM UTC
Swallows round steeples,
Indifferent as enlightened ones,
Purple robes in skies.
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 2:05 PM UTC
Overcast in mid-monsoon
bursting over ceaseless in rains
whirl-dancing dervishes
petals in ripple lakes,
chiming with the thunder
bridging heaven and Hades
hot a spring steaming here;
When we walk hand in hand
dimpled smile to smile
a hundred voices stream forth
in the bush streaking my cheeks
black unknown the hands of fate;
Flaming a firebrand dagger
dug into the earth will not heal
searing the roots, fuming stamen
in wilting flowers of the flame tree;
Dry the wells after all the tears
to the sky and beyond.
You are free, woman, of all
oppression, by force or love
unfettered be your spirit,
rage over me, dampen the soul!
Frame-holding an angst
disinterested at the edges,
rain, gail, storm in the soul,
withered trail of blossom fall:
spectral here sepulchered.
Oct 31, 2017
Oct 31, 2017 at 4:22 PM UTC
In this darkness, life
I see not
I feel not, but you
As time passes silently
Minutes per minutes
Days per days
I sense not, but you
To helplessness I submit
In this pitch intoxication
I am not, but you
With the desert singers
I am back, with you
Reclining us all on darkness
By the fire, in submission
pupils’ burning in eyes closed
This tavern serves only
Without, within with you
To the ones with cups
Or no cups at all
I smile giddily, with you
They sing feverishly
Drumming just a plate
Strumming just two stings
To the universes’ rhythm
I drink all, with you
Aged in lovers’ veins
And they sing
Of clay pots and rivers
Of birds and prays
Of dervishes and kings
Of me and you
On the desert sand
Wine flows like the soul
I desire all is more
I desire all is you
In this darkness, life
Open me to enter you
Take me from me
To vanish me in
Darkness and me
Life and you
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 5:20 PM UTC