"jurist" poems
''A few words of my soul to my heart''
O' Jamil what you seek is a sea of love and not tiny streams
Waves of which will carry you to mystic craved dreams
You will need the light of Shams⒈, a heart of Rumi⒉ the great
And eyes of Iqbal⒊ to explore the love of divine that await
O' Jamil be prepared to sink deep below in waters of love
There is no reverting back thereafter to the world above
You will fade away as small particles in this sacred sea
Only then you will be intoxicated with essence of thee
✑
Notes:-
⒈ Shams, Shams-e-Tabrizi or Shams Al-Din Mohammad was a Iranian Sufi, mystic born in the city of Tabriz in Iranian Azerbaijan.
⒉ Jalal Ad-Din Muḥammad Balkhi also known as Jalal Ad-Din Muḥammad Rumi and popularly known as Mowlana but known to the English-speaking world simply as Rumi, he was a 13th-century Persian poet, jurist, theologian, and Sufi mystic.
⒊ Sir Muhammad Iqbal was a Persian and Urdu poet of Pakistan, philosopher and a politician who had great visions for humanity.
✒ ℐamil Hussain
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 4:10 PM UTC
Water of remembrance sprinkled
On the mountain crest of recollection.
Indulgent mussy memory catapulted
Stones of retentiveness into the
Courtyard of events like bricole
Of battles.
Pendulum of reminiscences swinging
On oscillating milage of roads like
Trotting horse with drippage of sweat
And itching foots.
Ghost of reminiscences restlessly
Roaming with carriage of yesteryear.
Final year educatees required
Boardinghouse,
But list of items engorged dear
Mother's treasury
"where do l raise money
to buy oyinbo mattress, Ilori?"
Mind pullulated with weariness.
Intonation of worries.
Cantillation of wants.
Deficiency of measured means.
Oyinbo mattress beyond ladder
Of reach.
Gluttonously waiting to devour
Lesser items,
But rays of compulsion unslammed
The gate of respite.
Lordly arrival warmly welcomed by
The dorm room's porter,
Walking majestically to the bed-space
With the acquired cotton wool and raffia leaves mattress.
Gamut of items passed through the eagle's eyes of the housemaster.
Silver painted pail donated by a neighbour passed through the sentry of inspection,
And got its admission.
Mother's used cloak turned bedsheets
Passed through the rigorous scrutiny.
Newly built portmanteau unlocked and neatly dissected, item by item.
Agazed eyes focused on the cotton wool and raffia leaves hand-made mattress.
Expectations rattled mumbling astonishment.
Legs stuck in the mud of mystification.
Telepathic dews covered ocean of thought.
Tranquil silence engulfed vicinity,
Deflating the balloon of hope like a litigant awaiting verdict from the jurist's chambers.
Porter's gesticulating gesture connoted nothingness of demeaning disapproval, perambulating on the hilly terrain of approval.
Akimbo stood l.
Now the verdict!
Molten volcanic magisterial command erupted in a gestapo gesture,
Spudding out from the barytone's baritone voice from the selfsame housemaster,
From the bastion of authority,
And the house generalissimo like a wild brant squalled, matter-of-factly,
"we do not accept bed bugs cotton wool and raffia leaves hand-made mattress here".
Entreaties collapsed.
Jan 11, 2019
Jan 11, 2019 at 1:30 AM UTC
Himself it was who wrote
His rank, and quartered his own coat.
There is no king nor sovereign state
That can fix a hero's rate;
Each to all is venerable,
Cap-a-pie invulnerable,
Until he write, where all eyes rest,
Slave or master on his breast.
I saw men go up and down
In the country and the town,
With this prayer upon their neck,
"Judgment and a judge we seek."
Not to monarchs they repair,
Nor to learned jurist's chair,
But they hurry to their peers,
To their kinsfolk and their dears,
Louder than with speech they pray,
What am I? companion; say.
And the friend not hesitates
To assign just place and mates,
Answers not in word or letter,
Yet is understood the better;—
Is to his friend a looking-glass,
Reflects his figure that doth pass.
Every wayfarer he meets
What himself declared, repeats;
What himself confessed, records;
Sentences him in his words,
The form is his own corporal form,
And his thought the penal worm.
Yet shine for ever ****** minds,
Loved by stars and purest winds,
Which, o'er passion throned sedate,
Have not hazarded their state,
Disconcert the searching spy,
Rendering to a curious eye
The durance of a granite ledge
To those who gaze from the sea's edge.
It is there for benefit,
It is there for purging light,
There for purifying storms,
And its depths reflect all forms;
It cannot parley with the mean,
Pure by impure is not seen.
For there's no sequestered grot,
Lone mountain tam, or isle forgot,
But justice journeying in the sphere
Daily stoops to harbor there.
1.7k
*Silent sorrow
Judged by a purist
Guilt declared
An unrepentant jurist
Unable to breathe
Refusing to stand
Face in the tub
Ignoring the hand
Suffering's choice
Pain or pain?
Eclipse or night?
Always the rain*
Feb 7, 2012
Feb 7, 2012 at 7:45 PM UTC
Being a silly girl you mix love and lust
Beauty aspires love to touch and burst
This is what is her confidence and trust
When love becomes rusty in sheer rust
Ashes go to ashes and dust goes to dust
Beauty is not entity understood by jurist
Beautiful girls come on tour to be tourist
Love is matter of heart beauty for analyst
My love you believe not in love but greed
You are in deed of a deed which wants seed
Please understand purity ,chastity not to read
Love needs self negation sacrifice to breed
A friend in need they say is friend indeed
Love is remembrance of beloved bead by bead
Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2016 Golden Glow
Nov 13, 2016
Nov 13, 2016 at 7:48 AM UTC
who comes
home every
day, dives
straight into
a tall amber
bottle, falls
into a stone-
walled well
of silence, a
place where he can tread
the suffocating loneliness.
on the surface, he’s a proud
man. but just beneath his not-
so- thick skin, is a broken soul.
in his courtroom, he’s a tough
but evenheaded jurist, respected
if not particularly well liked. at
home, he doesn’t try to disguise his
bad habits, has no friends, a tattered
family. a part of my despises him,
what he’s done. what he continues
to do. another part pities him and
will always be his little girl, his
devoted, copper- haired daughter.
his unfolding flower. but enough
about daddy, who most definitely
has plenty of secrets. secrets mom
should want to know about. secrets
i should tell, but instead tuck away.
because if i tell on him, i’d have to...
tell on me.
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 10:46 PM UTC
who comes
home every
day, dives
straight into
a tall amber
bottle, falls
into a stonewalled
well of silence,
a place where he can tread
the suffocating loneliness.
on the surface, he’s a proud
man. but just beneath his not-
so- thick skin, is a broken soul.
in his courtroom, he’s a tough
but evenheaded jurist, respected
if not particularly well liked. at
home, he doesn’t try to disguise his
bad habits, has no friends, a tattered
family. a part of me despised him,
what he’s done. what he continues
to do. another part pities him and
will always be his little girl, his
devoted, copper-haired daughter.
his unfolding flower.
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 2:53 AM UTC
There exists all manner of confinement: bricks and bars, of course
The reward for having fallen out of favor with some jurist,
Black-robed and clad with a fitting solemnity,
But any number of others as well--all less tangible, less corporeal,
And, as such, all the more insidious.
The most forbidding of all confinements, though,
Are those of our own making,
Or (even more maddening, more exasperating) those of our own being,
The limits of our sight-lines at the horizon,
The boundaries of our own perception,
The tyranny of the senses.
Suffer my folly, then, to put out to sea
In the hope (though I fully understand
If you term it something else altogether) of finding
Some odd grail residing in the interval between dreams and the defined,
Though possessing can achieve nothing more
Than to taint it with the stench of the workaday.
I know that this mad exercise in carpe diem will not likely end well;
My safe returns dependent on instruments and forecasts,
Man-made and consequently fallible.
When such time comes, keen some song of the dead for me
As you wail upon the beach, if you must;
I will have likely achieved some semblance of peace.
May 19, 2017
May 19, 2017 at 3:40 PM UTC