Poem: In a World With No Time for Poetry

In a world with no time for poetry
we still have to die.

It would be so convenient if we could just
turn in our badge with our
full-color picture on it, go into a room
set aside for that purpose at the
corporate office
and evaporate, our desk left in order,
instructions on the
computer for the
one who fills our

But the earth itself is alive, its roots and its tendrils,
and even minerals are part of the food-chain
in the deep dark loam.
Air pushes itself in, shoving aside 40-story buildings
like a vaporized Jolly Green giant
to swirl around the
newly enamored, the
incessantly dejected, the old man watching at his window
for death,
the young girl wearing it next to her
skin on the
inside of her

Our bodies are ticking, their time is limited where they can
carry out the wishes and desires of the
unlimited spirit, but while they’re here

they get welts on their legs, exude fluids and
perfumes, live in a
strictly practical world, no time for
nonsense, while their

hair grows in ghost-land as long as the
anchor rope of the phantom galleon,

and minute mites like birds in branches settle down on our
eyelashes, thoughts like
ribbons of incandescence curve through us as
wide as the Niger,

and as we sit the walls around us become
obsolete, the hillside that
emerges as the
house dissolves, full of
unused warrens and
ant-entrances, blows away from

underneath us in a fine powder heading back to

The Fashioner.
1990, from A Maddening Disregard for the Passage of Time, soon to be published)

About danielabdalhayymoore

Poet, artist, collagist, publisher, hoping to save a little bit of the world through ecstatic utterance... ordered in balanced lines and unpremeditated images...
This entry was posted in ABDAL-HAYY'S POETRY, ISLAM/SUFISM, POETRY. Bookmark the permalink.

4 Responses to Poem: In a World With No Time for Poetry

  1. rstngtide says:

    What can I say? True music. Where every note is meaning. Every beat a reminder that we are a song bound together from the trembling chords of that original RESONANCE.

    I am made to think of the Cavatina of Beethoven: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8lTOcjSRvCI

    Only in this poem, HIS name is painted even more clearly for all to see: “The Fashioner.”




    My latest writing desk is a
    large square flattish book
    called: “The Great King… King of Assyria,”
    Metropolitan Museum of Art publication showing the
    bas reliefs in their
    collection, and to see these
    flat figures with Assyrian eyes and noses doing their
    almost two-dimensional dance along the flat surface of those
    ancient walls sets me
    going in the dark directions of
    poetry, to fall into crumbling dust, let my
    borders and their
    border-guards down, follow the
    slow or swift drift to the
    Ground, with a
    capital “G”, sink into the

    Assyrian Ground of anonymous being to re-arrive among
    talkative columns overlooking a clear blue sea,
    talk among those columns with the
    long-dead, see through their
    almond eyes, have their
    slightly curled smiles like taut
    bows in the hands of master
    archers, those
    curled beards like fluted
    columns themselves, or like the
    Rastafarian heads of ropey black hair in our
    own time, sound of
    sistrum, O
    sound the
    sistrum and bring out the
    dancers, we’re going to
    crumble through the
    dust of all
    dissolutions and re-
    emerge long dead and already ancient to walk along the
    shoreline and call out with no
    voice but
    majestic echoes that come curling

    all the way up into the
    late twentieth century to
    rattle among
    subway cars, fly
    up against the
    labyrinthine walls of our
    overpopulated cities

    to see if anything at all, any of those cries
    that arise out of the
    deepest Ground of our
    beings, can be

    5/5/90 (from A Maddening Disregard for the Passage of Time, soon to appear)


  3. Wow, what unique structure and flow.

    I’ll be looking forward to more submissions in the future.

    Thanks for posting.


    David Bohmiller


  4. patrick says:

    Daniel, and I mean this sincerely, your poems make me sing and dance.Blessings!


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