I’m An English Teacher Muslim Man!

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Listen and wail Tommy Robinson

Have a stiff drink Lee Anderson

And run Katie Hopkins! Run as fast as you can!

I’m an English Teacher Muslim man…

I’m your worst nightmare; I’m a living curse

When you hear my words, living may turn worse

For 24 years and around six months

Through the cold seasons and the worldly slumps

In the day I have read the rhythms of Blake

To the kids, for exams that they have to take

But before the glory of the rising sun

After sunset falling, equilibrium

I have prayed like the way of the Taliban

I’m an English Teacher Muslim man!

Run, run- get Prevent as fast as you can

I’m an English teacher Muslim man…

I have read Shakespeare with the children rapt

Then in lunch I have read the Quran resting in my lap

I’m an English teacher bewitched by the words

From the English-speaking literary world

But there’s also something you must understand

I’m an English teacher Muslim man…

Run, run-tell Michael Gove as fast as you can

I’m an English teacher Muslim man…

You may think I’m an oxymoron fiend

The anti-thesis of your Union dreams

I don’t fit in your ‘uz and them’ story

Coz I live the Quran but I teach poetry

I wasn’t conceived and born outside

In the Royal Bucks hospital, I did cry!

Just a stone-throw away from Vernon Scannell

I was raised in Aylesbury near the canal

At school with Catholics I did sing

And performed as the king in Rumpelstilskin

I was good at writing stories-grand

I’m an English teacher Muslim man

You say that Islam does not belong here

But signs of Allah are everywhere

Every breath I’ve taken whilst on this land

I have followed the Sharia, like the desert sands!

I have said my prayers; I have given my alms

I have fasted the month of Ramadan

I have made jihad with my English words

In the local earth are my elders interred

I took unpaid leave to perform the Hajj

But I’ve learned from Tybalt: don’t hold a grudge!

From Inspector Goole to care and share

And from Mary Shelley hubris beware!

And from Dr Jekyll, duplicity

And from Scrooge: goodwill’s felicity

But the Holy Quran is my motherland

I’m an English teacher Muslim man

Run, run, call Trump as fast as you can

I’m an English teacher Muslim man

So Tommey and Katie, Boris and friends

Where do you think this is going to end?

The only thing you can possibly do

Is to throw me out with the vindaloo!

That won’t solve the teacher shortage of course

And there’s thousands more like me in force!

My wife was a teacher, worked in schools

In my tribe, three doctors work, so cool

My brother and brothers-in-law experts

In IT infrastructure they work

There are psychologists, directors, nurses

Mid-wives, lawyers, and taxi hearses!

Some of my friends run eateries

Some run buses and late taxis

We have ripened on these streets right here

Will you throw us all out into the thin air?

Perhaps if you spent some time with us

You would realise there is not much fuss

We are much alike; we have differences

But there is some chance that we all can live

We are bound to Palestine, the free

You are bound to Israel’s dynasties

There is much to hate, but there’s much to learn

The Joker’s the one- wants the world to burn

You seek to be true to the ones like you

We seek to be true to our God so true

So beware things may go out of hand

I’m an English teacher Muslim man

You carry on loving your old St George

Have a good knees up, praise the Lord!

Carry on praising King and Queen

But careful Boris don’t be obscene

We’re not here to possess your ancestral lands

The earth’s is God’s, do you understand?

And Douglas Murray: we’re not weaselling through,

You need us just as we need you…

So, I leave you just in case you’ve not heard

The very first word of the Quran’s World

Read, read, as deeply as you can

I’m an English teacher Muslim man

(See Video on the Video Section)

Monster At the Office

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I work in an office, probably like the one that many of you also work in. Row upon row of shining desks, kitted with personal computers, flat-screen monitors, swivel chairs, post-it notes; surrounded by notice boards, weekly targets, coffee machines, softly humming recessed troffer lights, matrixed carpets, whitewash walls; topped off with the larger rooms of our directors and team managers, divided off with glass at the end. Where the blinds are sometimes drawn… Where the big decisions take place… Where you dread being called to… Depending on your productivity levels of course!

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When Layla Visited…

Layla graced our town with a procession

And every heart desired to see her face

So, I adorned myself with the finest outfit

Perfumed my beard with rose, the purest white

My voice, I practised eloquent encomia

My eyes, I checked my gazes on the screen

And then approaching calmly her palanquin

I called out to her longingly on a whim

Suddenly, the curtains drew aside

And there sat veiled the irresistible bride

She said: “Dear sir, what’s all this fakery?

That’s layered on your pretty words for me?

This hall of mirrors, these pixels in your heart

Cast them aside, stop gawking at the parts

Lessen the talk talk, tighten your broad band

Transcend the tick tock, do you understand?

Obsess not on the why, the fie, what’s apt

Instead arouse your heart, empty your lap

When your subconscious’s silent and serene

Then I will be ready to be your queen…”

MAWLID MUBARAK!

Don’t Be Afraid Dear England…

Don’t be afraid, dear England,
For Muslims are not your fell foes
Allah reminds us we’re travellers
The news in our hearts, Allah knows
Don’t be afraid, dear England,
Us Muslims, we don’t want your land
The east and the west are from Allah
All nations are built upon sand
Don’t be alarmed, dear Britons,
Us Muslims can never replace you,
We’re sons and daughters of Adam
So prejudice shouldn’t abase you
But do be aware, our dear English,
That we say that God is just One
Muhammad is His final prophet
We all will be judged near the sun
But even if you don’t believe us
God is your judge, not our selves
You are then free to develop,
To wonder, imagine, and delve
There is no compulsion in believing
We all will return to the One
So we try to follow our Prophets
Before all this life is undone
Dear English and all you dear Gaelics,
Feel free to imagine your selves
But know that while our way is different
We pray for you heaven, not hell
So don’t be afraid of us Muslims
Even the extremists and quacks
But don’t be so fixed on your nations,
One day God will take it all back ….

(A response to the riots of August, 2024)

The Murder of My Soul

One night I found my soul dead on the floor
Stabbed to death it rocked me to my core
And so immediately I led the case
To find if the killer had left a trace
I called our CID and Forensics
Who searched for prints and fibres for our pick
My CID checked hours of CCTV
Unlocked the mobile phones for clues and leads
But as we checked and searched for answers deeper
This mystery endured I felt a fever
Until we feared and floundered in flat circles
Our minds felt sick, our veins were going purple
Until one night as I slept in my bed
This case had burned my body churned my head
I found a door open with a subtle light
And drops of blood leading before my sight
I followed them then found a wretched dagger
Its familiarity it made me stagger
And then I found my nafs hidden in shadow
Upon its head an imp with eyes like arrows
The killer, to my unrelenting dread
Was not another one, but in me instead
And tears were shed of longing and remorse
The imp it fled and tawba took its course
My nafs was led away by CID
Constables instilling Divine Decree
And now I felt something just so relieving
I heard a heartbeat now; my soul was breathing

Notes:

CID- UK police detectives
Nafs- inner psyche/ego

Image: from True Detective: Season 1

The Hospital for Souls

Welcome to the Hospital for Souls!

Our treatments aren’t for parts but for the whole

We specialize in conditions worse than cancer

Like envy, haughtiness, ego and rancour

We don’t dispense tablets that you ingest

Instead our medicines- your lusts divest

The efficacy of all that we prescribe

Is up to your hardwork and fate Divine

Our doctors are the hidden and the seen

Our medicines from Al Quran Al Hakeem

Our treatment plans derived from Al Madinah

We treat all-comers, even deluded dreamers

But here’s the strangest thing about this place

Some of our patients have a healthy face

They walk around with strength and energy

They suffer not from gout or lethargy

But deep within they’re swayed by devil words

That whisper and press them to love this world

So if you need the treatment much like me

Our hospital is found in the Divine Sea

And peace and blessings on the true physician

The master of well-being, and intuition!

Inspired by the work of Sufi Tariqahs and Islamic spirituality

A Poem For Imam Abu Hanifa (ra)

Once there was a king from old Ibifa

Who heard about the treasures of Abu Hanifah

This king exclaimed, “I’ve heard the raving story!

Of treasures that will fill my land with glories

And now I know what this imam was hiding

I’ll take an army to where he was residing!”

The king marched with his band to Baghdad’s sanctum

Engulfing it like whales to floating plankton

And then the king addressed the Imam’s tomb

With expectation of the coming boon!

“O dweller of Baghdad Abu Hanifah!

Who holds the treasures of all pleasure seekers

You once said if the kings knew of your heaven

They’d march to you with swords of shining sevens!

So now I’ve called your bluff, give me the goods!

Or I’ll annihilate your neighbourhood!”

Suddenly a voice rose from the grave

“Dear king to come to me you’re really brave

I’ll save the courtesy and politics

And share with you the secrets of my fiqh!!!”

The king and army felt a subtle wave

Which cured them of the worldly things they craved

They dropped their swords and wandered Baghdad’s streets

Chanting with tears of joy down by their feet!

“We’re rich from this deep fiqh! We’re really rich!!!

We’re rich from this deep fiqh! We’re really rich!!!”

novid.co.uk

Imam Abu Hanifa once said, “If the kings knew the pleasure we are in, they would send their armies with swords to take it away from us.”

Did You Know That Nigel Farage?

Here are some facts, Nigel Farage

On Muslims you fear, who are at large

We are not guilty of your charge

Did you know that, Nigel Farage?

You blame Muslims for your country’s woes

For spreading our Trojan mosques in droves

Muslim migrants draining your funds

Living in your hotels for fun

But we are not guilty of your charge

Did you know that, Nigel Farage?

Muslim doctors in the NHS

They are around 30 percent

Teachers, ten thousand strong you see

Pakistanis and Bangledeshis

Two hundred thousand lawyers represent

Of those Muslims make six percent

We are not guilty of your charge

Did you know that, Nigel Farage?

Yes we do build our mosques and pray

But we don’t do just that all day!

Some of us run markets and stalls

Some of us work in station halls

Some in the civil service work

Some in the banks do stamp and clerk

Some of us sweep the streets and shops

Some of us sell nice sweets and chops

Some of build, we get stuck in

Others sell Southern Fried Chicken

Some are executives in-charge

Did you know that, Nigel Farage?

Thousands of our elders of yore

Fought for you in both great world wars

Thousands of words you use each day

Come from our countries where you’ve stayed

From us you devised your alcohol

Your magazines, sofas, arsenal

Your check mate, universities

The robes that you wear for your degrees

We are not guilty of your charge

Did you know that, Nigel Farage?

You’d better apologize before it’s too late

With cup of chai and paratha in plate

Coz we will all vote then run the state

And then establish a kulfi-fete

On a great field ice cream, fromage!

Did you know that Nigel Farage?

This poem was written in response to Nigel Farage’s comments about Muslim, during an interview with Trevor Philips, on Sky News, 26/05

Remains

For Armitage and Duffy

I’m not a soldier, suffering from war

No poet laureate champions my cause

I’m an Iraqi fellah, or trader

Or a young Gazan girl or baker

I’m an imam or a seeker of truth

Or a spent mother spurned from a camp roof

No special words remark what remains

Of my shattered country and shuddering frame

No empathetic, humanising verse

Speak of the time when our lives got worse.

Fine documentaries, carefully crafted

Fresh books of poetry, with publishers grafted

Capture the war photographer’s pain

And the soldiers who left our dwellings in flames

But none do observe that my heart is cleft

From the visceral horror of my sisters’ deaths

No thoughtful sonnets, nor ottava rimas

Conceive that drones are just terrible screamers

No stirring voltas turn on the lights

When the voltage runs out in the sinister nights

My world’s turning red, and the room grows dark

And nothing remains but my simmering heart

But here’s a secret that exists in lieu

A Nobel prize or a gallery view

Me and my people. we live and breathe

Live and breathe like you’ll never believe

Our soil sings our praise and the skies, they cheer

The ink may dry up, but we will remain here…

(check out Simon Armitage’s poem, Remains, and Carol Ann Duffy’s poem, War Photographer. Both in GCSE English literature anthologies)

TYRANTS, OLIGARCHIES, BOAT THIEVES AND THE TISSUE SWEPT FROM UNDER THEIR STORMY HISTORY LESSONS!

The power of Romanticism, radicalism, anti-racism, and the urge for human survival imbue the Power poems in Power and Conflict Cluster of the AQA anthology for GCSE English Literature

An article and commentary on the Power poems from the Power and Conflict cluster of the AQA GCSE English Literature course to assist in revision for GCSE students

Powerful spectres, phantasms and shadows lurk in the power cluster poems, which conjure images of abject human polities before awesome, tyrannical figures. Shelley, the radical; the anti-authoritarian poet, evokes a fictional representation of Rameses the Second, “king of kings” whose “sneer of cold command” and “wrinkled lip” conjure a portrait of a cruel, tyrannical leader. Blake, the visionary, composes a bleak vision of an impoverished London population, who “cry”, “sigh” and “curse” the shadowy oligarchies of the monarchy, the church, the government and ruling society who imprison them through bans, “chartered streets”, child labour, prostitution, and exploitation. Browning, some decades later, explores the egoistic, supremacist mind of a fictional Duke of Ferrara in My Last Duchess. Through the dramatic monologue, and through supreme understatement and euphemistic expressions (“I gave commands/ And all smiles stopped”), Browning horrifies us with this man, who kills off his duchess as he deems her love of life dishonourable and her carefree attitude an insult to his rank and status (“My gift of a nine hundred years old name”).

So far, the power poems caution us on the follies of human arrogance, hubris and corruption.

We see the futility of Ozymandias’s self-worship through the enduring supremacy of time and nature. His memory, in Shelley’s imagination, is but a “Half sunk, shattered visage”. The powerful elites in London fail or even refuse to perceive their abuse of power and their unjust privileges, which deafen them to the struggles of the poor. Blake’s sensory evocations of “sighs”, cries, curses, “blasts” and “marks of weakness” perhaps foreshadow the coming centuries of working-class uprisings, the development of democracy and the disintegration of pyramidal societal structures. We are being warned of an oncoming storm of human uprisings.

A storm also consumes Heaney’s imagination, but he conveys a sense of survival and equilibrium in his islanders, who have learned to weather the tempests of nature, and perhaps the Northern Ireland troubles. Heaney’s islanders, with a sense of solidarity, prepare for the winds as they have built their houses “squat” and roofed their houses with “good slate”. For these islanders, they have come to a realisation that it is “a huge nothing that [they] fear”. Gone are tyrants, the despots and barons on this island, and now they learn as a polity how to survive through the inevitable storms of life, and power of nature.

Wordsworth, sharing his anecdote as a young boat thief in the Lake District, reveals an unforgettable and paradigm-shifting encounter with the power of nature and the human imagination. His narrator’s youthful escapade with the “elvin pinnace” begins with a euphonic promise: “small circles glittering idly in the moon” and “one track of sparkling light”. But the “huge peak / black and huge”, the immense physical presence of the mountain, and symbolically, nature’s spirit and imagination, haunts him, stalking him back to shore. Until all that is left is “huge and mighty forms” which are a “trouble to his dreams”. In this, Wordsworth encounters a supreme power that we perhaps should not rally against, like Ozymandias and the Duke. Instead it is a force that we must come to terms with and bow to with a degree of respect: the unearthly power of nature and the imagination.

The imagination and particularly memories and history drive Carol Rumens and John Agard in their poems to speak out against the spectres of racism and exile. Carol Rumens narrator is an emigree or an exile, who faces hostility in their new city, whilst being drawn back to the “impressions of sunlight”, the “tastes” and the “evidence” of sunlight of their native city. Despite their city being “sick with tyrants” and accusations of being “dark” in their adopted city, this narrator cannot avoid seeing the daylight of their memories, in stark contrast to the figures of degradation in Blake’s London. Rumen’s oppressed wanderer possesses a power of will and survival through their turmoil.

Agard’s voice also speaks with a passionate pride for his Black history and his resignation and mockery of “Dem tell me / Wha dem want to tell me”. His voice acknowledges the suffocation of his history through the supremacy of  Western education, but now is standing firmly against this bias and is “carving out [his] own identity”. Now we can see power structures fading behind the rising spirits of historically oppressed voices and communities. 

And finally, the rug, or should we say, the tissue, or the paper is pulled from under the feet of all these power structures through Dharker’s musings upon the power of tissues, and how they can “let the daylight break through capitals and monoliths / through shapes that pride can make”, through egoistic statues, through covetous paintings, through palaces, through the corridors power and history books. Human tissue, for Dharker, is both vulnerable and, like paper, “thinned to be transparent” which raise structures that are at peace with their mortality, with nature and with the human soul.

ISLAMOPHOBIA IS NOT A THING TO DWELL UPON

Listen here dear Muslims!
Align your selves to God
Islamophobia is not
A thing to dwell upon
And listen here dear people
Of faiths or of non-faiths
Our job is to explain to you
There’s none except His Face
If you don’t take our calling
Well that is your freedom
There’s no compulsion in belief
God rules His whole kingdom
It’s not for us to judge you
There’s only One True Judge
So, you worship the gods you like
There’s no need for a grudge
But God tells us: ‘Don’t worship
No other gods but Me
If you choose to forsake My Words
None can save you from Me….’
So dear Muslims don’t worry
Or fret about cruel words
Islamophobia will pull you
From the beauty of His Words
Focus on the One Presence
Like Prophets of the past
The people of their times were worse
And looked at them, aghast
Noah was cursed and slighted
Moses was shunned and scorned
Jonah felt down and left his town
Mary was left forlorn
There always will be those ones
Who don’t accept Allah
They will see you as trojan horses
Plotting to cause them harm
So stand tall like the Prophets
Don’t fret that they curse you
Crying Islamophobia
Will not calm or soothe you
Shed light like Our Muhammad
Peace be upon him well
The more that people hate on you
Let Divine Love swell
For some this world’s a treasure
For some: heaven and hell
For some this world is such a pain
For some this world just smells
For true life is hereafter
That’s why you should not dwell
On their Islamophobia
Or mistreatment so fell
I don’t say be a doormat
I don’t say be passive
Protect your rights and learn to fight
But live and learn to forgive
So Muslims don’t you worry
Of Islamophobia
And people of all other ways
Shun xenophobia
We’re not so strange or scary
What we believe is ancient
We echo our father Adam
And our mother so patient
We will persist in saying
That God is only one
We will recite His holy book
And read the moon and sun
We do not worship your gods
You do not worship ours
But our origins are one and the same
We’re from the same flowers
Peace be upon Muhammad
And blessings on his friends
And be upon him family
And close ones till the end….