I’d rather go to Medina
Than go to Hollywood
In Medina, there’s no Oscars
Or shining halls of fame
Instead there’s awe with Mustafa
And prayers at Qiblatain
Continue readingI’d Rather Go To Medina
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Author Archives: Novid Shaid
Simorgh At Islamabad Arrivals
In Islamabad arrivals, a great hullabaloo arose, like a volcano erupting. Hundreds of tired and disgruntled travellers crowded the luggage belts, struggling to catch sight of their possessions, like a flock of herons, frantically searching the water for fish. Faces scowled; babies wailed; ladies sat back, fanning themselves with their scarves. It had been two hours; their luggage had failed to arrive and, to make matters worse, the luggage of the next arrivals was beginning to appear instead.
“What the hell is this!” yelled a large, moustachioed fellow, in a rich, white salwar qameez. The officials, in blue uniforms, continued to play dumb, expressing platitudes: “we have some technical difficulties… One of the computers has malfunctioned, but it will be fixed, and your luggage will be here soon.”
It’s All These Bloomin’ Gorei!
It’s all these bloomin’ gorei!
The Yankees and the Brits
They colonised the Muslim world
And made us look like twits!
They used us for their World Wars
They stripped our lands of riches
They left us fighting like hyenas
Then watched us fight, in stitches
But they did give us their passports
Continue readingThe Foreigners Are Coming…
The foreigners are coming…
Changing our way of life
They come with their strange languages
Causing us pain and strife
Although I must just mention
When I went down to Spain
Most of them spoke English there
So that was easy on the brain
Continue readingReading Reading!
Chorus
Reading, reading
Reading gives a feeling
Reading makes your life
So wonderful and pleasing
Reading, reading
Reading gives a feeling
Reading makes your life
So wonderful and pleasing
Continue reading
The Flood
Becalmed, the wide rubber raft floated aimlessly on the choppy waters, far from any sort of assistance. Huddled and shivering, refugees and migrants from a plethora of regions rubbed their hands and bodies. Mothers swaddled their children around their own meagre coats, while the irascible captain yelled and cursed at the steaming motor at the back. Holding his walkie-talkie close to his heart like a keepsake, he barked at his accomplices back in their base, demanding to know why his rescue boat had not arrived. Crackling voices responded, urging him to stay calm and wait.
“Hey, Mr Syria!” Yelled a young man, with deep dark skin like a killer whale and piercing eyes; the whiteness shone like the moon in the night. “We have some time. And we hear you can tell some stories….”
The Hafiz From Syhlet
Once there was a hafiz from Syhlet
Whose hidden devil made him a special bet
“My wager today
When you go to UK
All Quran in your heart, you’ll forget!”
What would Al Ghazali Say To Dylan Thomas
Dylan Thomas told us do not go gentle
Do not go gentle into that good night
Rage, rage against the dying of the light
But Al Ghazali said think not that death is death
Nay it is life
Be not afraid when death draws the night
The Mufti And His Night of Descent
It was the night of Isra and Mi’raaj
The night our Prophet travelled afar
To the glory of Masjid Al Aqsa
And then ascended beyond Al Muntaha
The Hellish Train To Tunbridge Wells With The Mozlamic Infidels
Once, upon a hellish train
That my memory will never expel
I travelled down to Tunbridge Wells
With the Mozlamic infidels!