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

It was this night that we observed a stranger

His looks peculiar, but we sensed no danger

A hooded man, weeping inside the mosque

With grizzled, untidy beard like a ragged fox

He sat far to the left all on his own

Weeping incessantly, with a rising moan

When all had left, and the brethren withdrew for sleep

Still this stranger persisted to sigh and weep

Feeling rather awkward with stiff upper lip

We approached this man with water he could sip

He thanked us, and he slipped back his hood

We gawked, when his identity we understood

This was the famous mufti of our shores!

The cool dude shaykh whom thousands adored!

“O Shaykh, O Mufti! What are you doing here?

Why do you cry?” Sensing his altered air.

He stared at us with asham’d, tortured eyes

“I graduated from the most prestigious institutions

With certificates from the grand Muftis of distinction

I’ve lectured far and wide with resounding acclaim

Every sunnah performed meticulously

My voice, the larks fall silent jealously

My humour entertaining, my utterances so witty

People seek me wherever I am invited

Brothers admire me, sisters with me are delighted

Then this night, I fell into an inexplicable slumber

I thought the Lord was to make me of the special number

But the Lord made me fold up into myself

I whizzed through my veins and arteries with stealth

Then I fell, tumbling like a piece of debris

Into the cavern of my heart, my mystery

And there a sight filled me with dire sickness

I felt like a wounded gull perched on an infernal isthmus

What I found was not supposed to be there

Instead of the Kaaba or the Prophet so dear

Or the supreme name of the One without a peer

I saw a monstrous totem, crowned with my smiling face

Hundreds of my miniature twins engulfed the place

Some prostrating at my grotesque statue

Others mocking the tawaaf with eyes askew

In just a blink I then found myself

Within the totem, staring down at my little selves

I saw each tiny face and heard their squeaky voice

‘You are so great, your humble tears so moist!

You are truly on the path of prophethood

You are an inheritor of the truth and good

Your face is like a full moon, shining so free

All the sisters dream of you secretly

Then I was stolen through my heart’s inner doorways

I saw myself ravishing my female proteges

In another, I bathed in luscious green notes

And another, I strangled those who did not give me the vote

And then back into that steaming pit of idolatry

The statue of the nauseating ME

Then in this state I wept and wept so raw

Suddenly I witnessed water rushing through the doors

They washed away my totem and my selves

A light began to shimmer in a place I was yet to delve

But then the water dried off very quickly

I saw the totem growing and my selves so sickly

And then I realised deep in the heart

I would have to weep and weep until

I find a special doctor, because inside I am ill…”

We listened all silent, our faces turned to stone

He was a mirror; his state was really our own…..

This entry was posted in narrative poetry, Sufi/Mystical and tagged , by Novid Shaid. Bookmark the permalink.

About Novid Shaid

I am a Muslim writer and English teacher. I have written poetry, short stories, a play, and I am currently working on a novella. My subject matter and themes are related to Islam, Sufism, politics and also my job as a secondary school teacher. My work is copyrighted and any works published here may not used or copied without my prior consent. You can contact me via the "Contact Me" page, if you wish to use any these writings. I am keen to gain the notice of publishers and if any are interested in my writings, please contact me via the "Contact Me" page. Was salaam, Peace

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *