Best Minaret Poems
poised
above the minaret
a crescent moon –
a woman in labour
holds her husband’s hand
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A Strand (1048) Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand
© 3rd December 2021
Note: The crescent moon is related to life… a sign of fertility.
The ‘curve’ refers to the moon and the belly of the pregnant woman.
When tears dry up and laughter is not funny any longer
As duvet feathers grind the weary soul to sunken skin
The parchments dehydrated canvas folds the poet’s path
A cliche strewn among the notion ‘it will make you stronger’
Depicts an empty victory pretends to gather strength and win
The prelude of the past in future remains a lonely aftermath
Gone are the days of jolly frolic of showers gelled and Turkish bath
Of journeys tickling monumental Derwish’s allegoric spin
Despairing anger cannot shed an inner war’s destructive monger
With memories and wreaths of praise and laurel turned into wrath
Then conjoined before and after numbness seems your next of kin
A magic oriental carpet’s washed out fabric evaporates inside her
An ancient pleasure cruise shrouded in silence’s muted fanfare
Sails of plain cloth mystery weather worn in droplet’s silent fall
Its time and place and time-place for scented oriental candles
To rekindle a mosaic of epic proportions a glancing care from scare
From feeling so minutely small and festered no recipe for standing tall
Yet seeds of cinnamon and hope might just reset this hold of strangle
Meditation reclusive pastures enlightenment from darkness’ bangle
Retrieved from imposed prison shackles to praise to heal and call
‘I want to be the muezzin once more sing forcefully in ink and dare’
Climb my minaret resolve cacophony write messages to Self and strangle
All those demons massage my dreams and foresight grab the haul
Then conquer quietly as time proceeds ‘I know I can in solemn prayer’
A black cloud
rains selectively
on the dispossessed,
a wretched lot.
My billowing abaya
now clings to me,
revealing my form.
Their glances lacerate.
The road stretches
to the horizon,
but has swallowed
my expectations.
Palestine, 1948
First published in Blue Minaret
Blasphemy
Blatantly ephemeral or plain outright naughty and lustful
Praying for beauty in the eye of beholding passionate Gods
Angles and half dome shaped wishes curve balls and all
~ Those who write by the sword are judged by the Lord ~
Thanatos and Libido a close shave of mounds of Vesuvius
The Vatican going up in one shattering search of its smoke
Church towers like phalli or bayonets decree choice in the matter
~ Trust thy neighbor in her cove’s coveted olives and mangos go forth
Veiled femme fatals embrace their shadows cover the flame
The Muezzin shouts from his minaret calls for service and love
Lingerie adorned by copula’s cusp bosomed for nibbles
~ Wet shirt competition in the heat of the spiritual moment ~
An elegant elephant with trumpeting trunks moaning and groaning
Free flowing love on the banks of the Ganges under cloth of the loin
Where Hindu meets Buddha on sheets and streets of Kolkata
~ Begging for mercy as wars of religions and nations battle in vain ~
Crosses to bear half moons to envisage and Karma to please
One woman’s humid humour is another man’s satirical crime
Whose God is to command me what is right and what thong
~ But once the bloody atheist kneels on the altar faith is restored ~
03rd May
Do you envision a creeping fear
climbing the minaret
to reach the moon ?
A debate has started
between believers and non-believers.
Why not he who lives
in eternal emptiness climbs down
and settles the dispute of hymns
in the scortching heat of words.
I just want you to read
the script and don’t say, a sky
has wept
drop by drop on the nakedness
of human beings
who could not cover their shadows.
Satish Verma
Notre Dame...Notre Dame...
your eight hundred years of wisdom’s gone;
eight hundred years of beauty strong;
architectural sage, Notre Dame.
Notre Dame your life has seen
so many broken centuries and
oh, the stories your stones could tell,
told by the ringing of your bells.
Will they rebuild you once again?
Will your façade grace more eyes and
then will you be the same as once;
can France’s spirit overcome this loss?
Survivor of revolution and two world wars;
you’ve stood beyond the bombing hoards.
How many strove to give you life?
Their legacy’s now a burning pyre.
One hundred eighty two years of sweat;
poured into stone and minaret.
Gothic, stained glass beauty of Pa-ree,
such blood and sweat poured into thee.
Oh Notre Dame...Notre Dame;
survivor of eight centuries;
what’s now to become of thee?
Written 4-15-19
As an artist, I am sorrowful for this beautiful loss but, glad that no lives were lost. When I think of those who poured their life’s work into Notre Dame’s Beauty, the artist, architects, stonemasons, carpenters and more, I feel an even stronger sense of loss than just that of an
I do not know what I'll find
if I pull off your hijab
Perhaps a cobra lurks to bite
Whose venom will kill wit
I've bared my heart into sonnets
Sadly you will never read them- you aren't lettered
You're rather numbered counting naira notes
by the fireside where you fry awara
but I know you'll listen to my eyes
that tells the number of stars
exploding within by this stuttering tongue and frosted sweat
thawing under the radiance of your dimples.
In the dark corner where the cry of almajiri crowns the night
I will be waiting to elope with you arm in arm via our eyes with wings
where we can stand above the earth with every altitude heavenward
veiling the steeple and the minaret.
Await the zenith of the sun,
cross clay courtyard a beckoning
barefoot walked, heartstring undone,
Oh Lord, there’s love, no reckoning.
Soundless clarion of tears fall
toward absolution’s bright blessing,
within the domed sabil I call...
Oh Lord, there’s love, no reckoning.
The fountain's dry, but not my eyes
sounds of grace rebound, amazing,
Amazing Grace, sang such as I
Oh Lord, there’s love, no reckoning.
We are but one beneath the sun
for all our fears and wandering
all creation our companion...
Oh Lord, there’s love, no reckoning.
Let spirit rise on minaret
and phantom penitents come hieing
all is well, we are God’s get
Oh Lord, there’s love, no reckoning.
Peace is not a relationship of nations. It is a condition of mind brought about by a serenity of soul. Peace is not merely the absence of war. It is also a state of mind. Lasting peace can come only to peaceful people.
Jawaharlal Nehru (1889 - 1964)
Can a man – all alone - foist a god upon his fellows
Even if it’s only himself
And they his subjects
G.. is Akbar!
Does the muezzin from the minaret of Qoutoub-Minar
look up or
down to the illiterate savant emperor
whose newly-ordered cosmos
much as Tamerlane and Genghis Khan's blood
mixed gods
invented the Gysin-Burroughs cut-up and fold-in method
a cornucopian chimera
shi'ite-sunnite-kharidjites
hindu/buddhist-jain
confucian-taoist/zoroastrian
orthodox-christian/judaic
saivite-vaisnavite
mahayanist-theravadite
shintoist-zen-chan
agnostic-atheist
A…. is Great!
In the begining there was no VERB for him
In the end
from
"brahmana" Himalayas to the "asurya" Deccan
from
Ghazna and Kabul to the spent chugged mouth of the Ganges
where bloomed the Allah-Upanishad
One common language
One uncommon religion
One classless society
One mutually nourishing art
One scientific quest
and the sweet music of friendly disputation
within then the world’s vastest book and art collection
though knowingly
took to wife an Hindu princess
chose his prime counsellor from among the Brahmin élite
where within hearing distance lithesome nymphs bathed in scented milk
his victoriously wearied warrior limbs back from punitive expeditions
through Panipat Delhi Agra Punjab Gwalior Ajmer
Gujarat Bengal Sind Orissa Baluchistan Ahmadnagar Kashmir
Khandesh
to circumscribe the sub-continent
a Ceasar at the court of Fatehpur-Sikri
Akbar is ___!
Who would parse and complete or conclude the syllogism
For « One » who dared abolish the jiziyah
Note: Jalal ud-Din Muhammad Akbar (1542-1605), the third Mughal Emperor, edicted that muezzins should herald the rising of the sun by the call: Allah-u-Akbar!
The « jiziyah » , a word of Arabic origin, meaning a tax levied on non-Muslims who wished to conserve their own property, and imposed by the Moghul sovereigns – on and off - in India, was abolished by Akbar in his seventh year of accession to the throne.
©: T. Wignesan, March 13, 1992 (from the sequence/collection: "Words for a Lost Sub-Continent")
Sun is brightly shining …
Minaret echoes throughout
haze hides verdigris
Music
Like a raindrops,
When racing October, smoothly,
Shaking upon ember pulse
Ah _ I adore its talk,
When fear roars into myself and calms
And when the minaret of the village,
Exclaims my name,
Like a successive waves,
On the banks of sorrow
And when my old friends,
Taking a farewell look,
It’s lying down next to me
As a white star,
Dancing between five sleepless angels
Upon endless greenery land,
Playing grief tunes; the tunes of the end
Dedicated to Ed Sheeran
Inside the glass the dry leaf was manifested, as a skeleton is prominent with all the inside structure and artistry.
I went to the voting center. I had nothing , completely nothing in my mind. Beto O'Rourke, some democratic other names , but I was not daydreaming, I was not dreaming at all, in a grown up body, I learn so little, after putting so much efforts, I feel I am getting washed away, and nothing sits there, nothing gets deposited there, as silt, sedimentation of particles, nothing too much sensual either. It gets washed away, as the river flows, as a present body embedded in the nature, out in the flora and fauna.
I had a ride. She is a beauty, with headscarf and white skin, she is a mirror of the past. flavor of cooked mosul of next door neighbor, where we had a big big masjid on the other side of the road, the name of the masjid was Minar Masjid.
The minaret was truly beautiful, and the curvature , also. Older days, in Bangladesh.
We reached the destination. She met a random person. I had so many complicated nuances in my introspection that I hardly talk about that. There is a narrow lane to be tagged as inferiority complex, and opening up about truer issues, where lights are making the pathway as our intentions are reflected on that.My mom was a old fashioned beauty, an old one, but vintage enough like the most delicate motif, as I touch the threads beyond time, without cherishing too much, without mourning too much for perishing either.
She was never an outspoken person. My older sister had a maxi, a long gown, a greenish one. Amma mended the gown for me, a downsized one, and did embroidery on the chest with pink and green threads. Her knitting was with a style, a reserved one.
Not every morn brings her back. Not these days. Not too often.
He/She/Lemmingsonabridge BAH! SAYS YOU!
WHAT ISN'T ARTsyfartsy?
Tickle my eyes
sensations blurring
casserole fishdish
cold stone marble ears
Fiddledeedrumsticks handlebar mustache
calligraphic impotency
within the fireworks
of eastern Jupiter
Apples
Cattle ranch
my little ones
I love you I love you I love you
Salamander Samba Salsa Simba Silence Speaking Sacrilege
Loquat
Sorry Wait Water Weight Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
Minneola minaret
I DON'T GET IT
I can't peel my hair!
KABOOM
spiral
Can anyone tell me the truth behind the lemon tree's bastard son, the emerald?
My brain's a leaping hopscotch feather
Ape ricotta
Ernesto Zucchini
April dentist
and... stop.
okay go!
eating tom's a foolery
Bean turd soup?
Who you calling a dirty orangeeater?
I am lord of the marshmallow!
Take a bite out of My Fig tree because
I forgot what time the dining hall
BANG COLLAPSES
The glowing sun is just about set
And I have a glass of wine in my hand
A candle burns in a robust flame
My beloved snuggles in my embrace,
There’s a prospect of romance in the air--
And Muezzin* calls the faithful to prayer…
O God
Pardon me my evening prayer!
My evening has blossomed
into a promising night
Her long and lustrous hair swaying
like flower-laden boughs in the wind
Let me drink and imbibe my love deeply,
I know a new day is not going to now dawn…
O God
Pardon me my morning prayer!
*Muezzin: One who summons Muslims
to prayer from the minaret of a mosque.
(An overriding theme of Sufi poets is the expression of the relationship between lover and Beloved, soul and Absolute, using worldly imagery to describe their mystical experiences. Wine refers to the nectar of divine ecstasy.)
~08/21/15
"Only for those NA contest by Edward Ebbs
You are cruel and stopped counting your treasons
You're respected Muslim nevertheless.
You don't need to give yourself a true reason
To pray, it's scheduled five times nonetheless.
You do not appreciate expensive wine
Although you drink yet you abstain from pork.
Minaret calls for prayer, its surface shines,
The mosque is atop. "Now left at this fork!"
Passing empty field, a small town, then uphill
Following neighbours and your dear loved ones.
The sight of an old cripple gives you a shrill,
His look is strict but begging you to come.
The view is of artsy brush of Monet, Claud,
Quiet murmur is prayer of imam.
In distance majestic Christian Ararat
Is hypnotizing. Now here it's Islam.
Story goes back a century, it's a while,
Thank God, the world remembers genocide.
Human's Id is nibble, double faced and vile,
Armenians hold their heads up with pride.