Poem: Enter Me Into the Great Adventure



Enter me into the great adventure

Don’t let the Tygers of Wrath
pounce at the inception but

lurk at the sidelines behind
banana leaves the size of continents

waving in a wind as great as an
eyelash blink that fans the

cosmic spaces

Each step a plunder of the invisible
each departure a leaving of treasure behind

for the inestimable treasure ahead
Pearl of Great Price

haunted already by what we’ve
never seen

carrying the shadow that will be
cast down at the

death of our minor being to the

allowance through its empty gateway of Your
greater Light

O Thee to Whom we turn without
turning but Who by true turning we would

return to Thee


The train left off all its passengers
and went on by itself

The fire consumed the village mountainside
and then consumed itself

The sky beamed down above the lake
then gazed a long time at itself

Eagles hovered for a while in the air
then flew within themselves with giant

wing-flaps toward the heavenly light
that shone only for itself

We stand up for a time then
lie down in ourselves without leaving or

not leaving behind the list of our
duties to be fulfilled by everyone but


The day pulls itself over itself and
reveals stars beaming by themselves

though space that is

where nothing but itself exists
to contemplate itself


How honest can we be
when everything’s melting instantly?

We contemplate our features in a glass
and it too melts away into the past

The river washes all its suds around our feet
whose every crescent of its ripples can’t repeat

The sun bends down upon our bending forms
whose only beckoning comes from earthworms

The sky fills with incredulous white light
that convinces us that everything’s all right

and it is in every cranny of our lives
where zebras leap and honeybees keep hives

where lions snooze with muzzles on their paws
and everything’s fulfilled by its own laws

created by the Lawgiver Supreme
whose proof exists in a single eyebeam

cast on the melting world before it melts
and leaves behind the mystery of its wealth

where nothing else is at all by God
whose nothing else was Him all along



He is He

and none other is He

but He

And He is

11/14/11 (from The Match That Became a Conflagration)

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, amazement, gratitude, ISLAM/SUFISM, Light, Love of God, Music, Muslim Poetry, POEMS, POETRY, shadow, Space, Sufi Poetry and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to Poem: Enter Me Into the Great Adventure

  1. Opa Calypso says:

    I love your poems, heres one of mine 😉

    Fight, 100% natural, no additives
    (from Thomas for Suzanne)


    At night

    Between the branches of the tree and the moon,
    their images meet on the surface of the the invisibly clear water.
    But the idea of their respective realities meet in the minds of those men that stand on the shores of the lake, watchful, knowing that there is water. (and, of course, fish)

    But so clear is the water, that it could not be seen without the mirroring
    of what is reflected in it.

    Without a frontier there can be no contact.
    Without knowledge of that fact, there can also be no real contact .

    Because, as we just saw, or just see, the water does not really exist if no one knows of it.
    Even if there are things mirrored in it. These things actually being metaphors wating for
    being known as such. You guess, the water itself is a metaphor…

    But why should there be any contact at all?
    Why should there be ANYTHING at all?

    Now in a metaphorical way, the water itself is the knowledge, or let us say the primordial awareness
    that by necessity has to remain invisible itself. That is, for ever! That does not mean we cannot drink it. We actually can drink this unseen water, if we know where it is. And we know where it is from the reflections on its surface. Maybe now the water is no more so metaphorical.
    Maybe the metaphor lies in its interaction with Existence, that is, everything, including the abovementioned minds of the fishermen.

    But its essence is not metaphoric at all. It is in a way nonexistent, that precedes existence,
    it is the condition for existence. In every single moment, not just as the famous prima causa.

    The surface of the water is the frontier that makes contact happen.

    And without the mirror nothing would meet anything, not even without anyone knowing it. And with nothing meeting anything, there would be no language. And without language, there would be no knowledge.

    Without knowledge then, would there be water? Would the first be there without the last?
    And since, of course, the last would not be there without the first, the first frontier is between darkness
    and night – beetween darkness and light.

    But this frontier stays invisible until it is known about.

    And, as we already know, an unknown frontier makes absolutely NO SENSE,
    the first cosmic event of drawing a line beetween darkness and light, or between existence and non-existence, is an order that has to be followed: Know! But see above, what are the prerequisites of knowledge – language. So that means: In the beginning was the word. It had to be.

    It could not be: Know! Because there was no one there to know.
    It had to be.
    It had to be: Be! Be, in order to know!
    But who can speak such a word, if no one is there?

    But nonetheless, it was spoken. It follows from strict logic.

    By someone who was not there. To someone who was not there.
    Could this not be the most ironic beginning of a glorious partnership?

    Full of contact, between Non-Entities, that only exist by the essence of the prerequisite for their metaphor. No, thats hard to attain, isnt it? So the first step should be to absolutely forget about the
    metaphor. Lets play reality! Pouring from the empty into the void.
    Instead of being full of contact, let us have full contact. Without boxers gloves. Until our little brains swell so much that we almost pass out. And then, in that swoon, it may happen that the primordial
    drive reminds us. That would be the first real contact between the nonexistent creator and his nonexistent creation. That would make sense, because it would shed the light of knowledge
    about our being alone from before-time to after before-time- and why we started the fuss in the first place, and that is….

    Now, dear reader, you could be tempted to think that if I speak of “us” that would mean humans.
    Not at all! Its everything BUT humans, even if “us”, what so ever from viruses to rats, horses, canaries or guinea pigs we “are” in turn are valid metaphors for such purely fictional entities as “humans”.

    They can be, and they can even be in order to know, but the do not actually know.
    They either miss language, or contact, or water. They identify, and just with that act lose the connection no the nonexistent who ordered them to be in order to know.

    And of course, what can they know? If there is no one to know, they only can know this no one,
    as He reveals himself to them in them and by them, and by everything else.
    Now they know many things, but they dont see through them, and become the things they know.

    Because they build metaphorical frontiers, where only real frontiers reflect meanings hidden in existence. I have to stop here, suffice to say that there is absolutely no hope for mankind in
    the bestial condition they skillfully keep themselves in. But that does not matter at all.
    Matter does not matter, it is easy as that. Matter, or mass, is etymologically nothing but a lump of substance, without any spiritual reality. It means nothing, it passes by, and leaves no trace.
    At best it makes a nice dish.

    Actually, nothing ever leaves a trace, except Elvis, who just left the building.
    And those are his footsteps, right there! You either see them, and know what they mean,
    or at least that they mean something, friggin anything at all,
    or you dont, and thats all for now.
    You either love Elvis, as he cant help falling in from the stage with you,
    or you imagine he is dead meat as you are. Of course, they you I am talking about is part of the nonexistent “us”, including me, so no offence meant, ok?

    But Elvis lives 4 ever!!!!

    There is one very small other possibillity,
    but Elvis said I may not talk about it, or face electrocution.

    But I digress.

    Ich glaub ich hab sie nicht mehr alle. Aber wer hat die schon…


    The following events happen at exactly the same time, during which the fishermen and some women stand on the shore of the lake, watching the merged images of moon and trees reflecting on the water, sometimes torn apart by jumping little fish, and constantly, but almost imperceptabel by the senses from each to the next moment, slowly moving away from and through each other, as the moon follows his orbit around the madly revolving earth.

    That is, right NOW, but not on the same geographical lenght,
    not even necessarily in in the same galaxy. Anyway, its both in autumn.

    At the same time, in February, I wrote this text,
    and also in exactly the same presence,
    you, dear Reader, in precisely this moment, read it!

    How is that possible? Maybe you or even I will find out one day, or maybe not,
    but it is absolutely true, and if you do not believe it, then beware, it does not matter.


    Around ten o clock in the morning

    A frog is jumping through the Fog
    while after him there runs a dog

    The dog is followed by a fox
    who´s also trying to catch frogs

    If fox knew dog he would let frog
    but all are covered by the Fog

    Except for one
    who stands aloof

    On one long leg only
    without a move

    Still his beak above the Sea of Fog
    stirred up by this Foxdogfrog

    That spills forth in a tidal wave
    those, who belong there, to the their grave

    (Who would that be? Who not? Who knows? And where?)

    The Stork just bows
    and first the frog

    is taken out
    of his lifes fog
    with skillful care

    (allow a little discourse by Stiff-legged-Master Adobar:

    “Frog soon will change
    in part to wings

    in part to eyes
    in part to stinky things

    will rise to heights formerly unknown
    and then again be overthrown

    be buried in harsh sands of time
    and come to life again – sublime

    may that he´ll bear an oriental princess´ glory
    I leave that for another story

    so lets continue with this one
    without intending any pun:”)

    As High is parted from belower
    the dog´s now also getting slower

    and sees the fox who by this hound
    in turn is taken underground, fangs in neck

    so that, of four, just two survive –
    enters the the Sun, broad smiling:

    C´est la vie (He´s french, it means “Thats life”)
    and now he draws his Knifes of Rays, soooo hot

    and cuts the wavering Fog a-way
    to see him back another day.

    Sun then goes to settle soon
    on His bench

    enters Mdme. Moon
    she´s also french, the dog mourns “UUUuuuuuhooo”, for she´s so cool
    and wolved down foxes make hard stool

    The Stork with glibbery frog his stomach filled
    dreamily digesting on his favourite stilt

    still standing quiet, he has no organ
    for speech, nor rhyme, but in the End, thats also fine, or maybe not

    Alas, if all delicate creatures get eaten
    sollt man die Natur verbieten, das hat doch alles nur Zweck und keinen Sinn
    (come on, forget it, let it be! Here we are not in germany!)

    Be it then, for this mad-raving revolution,
    let me as poems president at least sign her constitution:

    Let´s be predator
    Let´s be prey
    Let us come
    and go away

    Let us pray
    Let us strife
    for the eternal Ray of Life

    To be of it, be killed and kill
    but tell metaphor from the Real.

    To let the fools rush in and out
    and only guess the whereabout

    Of All and Elvis, who just left the building
    or is he sitting on this passing cloud?

    I hope that we will never know
    cause that could easily spoil the show

    Sometimes the good comes to the slow
    the ones that wait, and turn, bend

    And after that again will stand
    nurtured by meanings from what was meant

    On the surface
    or within
    and whence?
    what rhymes with above?
    Must surely be a boxers glove, or is there a hidden word in the whole equation?

    Does it matter? Wouldnt it be better,
    to leave this farce as lumps of bloody splatter, with no more hesitation,
    like did our witty fox?

    Or may that painful constipation
    dissolve at last to a real elation?

    When the howling domesticated wolve raises a soft smile from the Moon,
    that She borrowed from her hotheaded Master,
    who in turn reflects it from the infinite core of being,
    where the stork clacks endlessly without rhyme and questionable reason, but rather loud,
    Will all those evanescent beginnings rhyme with their infinite Ends,
    as the Fog returns to be the pasture of Light,
    or will it the earth just be burnt bare to their rocks?


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