Poem: Childhood of the Saint

(Note: I find myself presently writing poems under the title: In Constant Incandescence, swirling around thoughts of saintliness and godliness. With now three grandchildren, the newest being a grandson in Switzerland (the other two granddaughters in London, and we grandparents in Philadelphia), and thinking about what the great awliyya’s childhoods might be like (of which we often have more factual information), this poem has come, partly in honor of the new arrival, of whose saintliness actually only Allah knows for sure… but of which each child born partakes…)

for Noah Leon Sanders

The childhood of the saint probably seems to
pass by in a matter of minutes

and he or she find themselves turning
wine into water and

stopping runaway school buses

A baby looks out at the world through
slitted eyes

not sure if the new accommodations are
really suitable after all

They suffer being picked up and laid down
gift-wrapped and unwrapped over and over

and no doubt we form later opinions and
attitudes in our tiny brain ridges

from the see-saws of these earliest moments

Whereas saintly babies get right to work from
the moment they land on earth

soothing the mother’s fears bringing the
young father to the sudden

brink of maturity

They seem to remember their kaleidoscopic
journey through and past all the

worlds in their shattering lightningbolt
highlights and celestial rainbow shadowings

and the wild character of their various
populations enough to fill coffee table photo books of

undersea anomalies as well as gorgeous
extraterrestrial beauties

They open their eyes onto the blurred
cinema of this world and get

right down to business

They’d talk of they could but are
patient at the deficiencies of their new equipment

though some (like the infants Jesus and Muhammad)
utter perfect sentences then keep their

council until speech seems more
age appropriate for a more

natural consensus

But right at the first
these saints look at us with their

big watery eyes and we’re
transformed

Birds gather in the trees outside the
nursery window in perfect

Walt Disney fashion since they’re the
news carriers to the rest of the

animal kingdom that another
saint’s been born among the

usual run of ordinary mortals

(the fact being that birds are more
capable than humans to spread

the news in its original righteous language)

and when the light’s out in the baby’s room
and the parents finally go off to sleep

the true spiritual conferences begin
with elders and saintly substitutes

come from all the corners of the globe
and ancient domes of the stars

to confer with the newest saintly arrival
who might seem peacefully asleep

but baby saints are busy charting out
the needs and emergencies of all earthly human commerce

and when the enrobed elders in their brilliant nimbuses
finally return to their dazzling domains

they remind the saint to cry out in the most
robust and baby-like manner

to awaken the parents again to their
basic human assumptions

Later in the whizzing childhood of these
blessed beings

(sawdust in their hair dirt on their
knees their pigtails tangled)

they have a touch that can’t be described
and a piercing glance that rights

wrongs and wages angelic war on
injustices in the tiniest of matters

and the roads ahead of them already
glisten with their light having

brought God’s intimacy with them
into the splendid

quotidian brightness of their days

Food tastes better in their company
financial worries disappear

(God’s bounty falls from the rafters)

Everyone’s clothed in a new nakedness
warmed by an anciently glorious sun

__________________
3/27/10

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. Bookmark the permalink.

8 Responses to Poem: Childhood of the Saint

  1. Not bad, but your poetry could benefit from choosing a more constraining form. Ever considered using rhyme or meter ?

    You might be interested by my rather classical-inspired poetry:

    sites.google.com/site/rocketsandperfumes

    WBB
    Jan Peregrinus

    Like

  2. Well, Jan, thanks for the comment. I saw some of your poems, and I assume you are referring to your sonnets. It’s sheer genius to rhyme Ganges with phalanges, a wonderful “near-rhyme,” (In English pronunciation, however, “Gangees” sounds like it has two “e’s” and “phalanges” only one. I do have a book entitled Ramadan Sonnets (see my website: http://www.danielmoorepoetry.com) with a number of sonnets among the open forms. Blessings on your work, and a rousing “huzza” for poetry… Many Dutch modernist poets have eschewed the “classical” forms… no?

    Like

  3. Walking in the woods just now, doing dhikr of Allah, I realized that in fact Ganges and phalanges do rhyme perfectly, especially as Ganges is pronounced in Europe, British pronunciation, if I’m not mistaken. So Jan Walking-Around-Guy, there is much to be learned and improved upon in my work, and I again thank you for your comment, with all blessings.

    Like

  4. patrick says:

    Daniel,
    you truly rang the bell with this one.Poetry has no constaints…blessingsto the family and kinder

    Like

  5. Patrick, always good to hear from you. I pray your saintly child is doing well… and your heart healed and healing… that bitter vine!

    Like

  6. patrick says:

    indeed, friend, my child pir is still teaching me the ways of the universe.This poem is simply wonderful,just picked up Sparrow on Friday.Whew!Seriously,it is deeply,profoundly moving.Thank you

    Like

  7. Pingback: Childhood of the Saint « Mohammed Abbasi

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s