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Day 2, Batch 2 Poems Ghareeb EID Reads / Ghareeb EID Reads 2018 / Short poems on love lost and love found (2) (3) (4)
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Day 2, Batch 1 Poems, Ghareeb EID Reads by Lilzmalcolm(m): 7:45am On Aug 23, 2018 |
Day 2, batch 1. ** THE HUNTER AND HIS HATERS by Bello Mustapha Ada, your hunter father is going forever And the days of hate will soon expire I am a hunter with slender hands But heaven blessed me with Vedinand He was my only son with full muscles Who hunted antelopes into our pot of soup Even that pompous pawpaw tree did applaud my son For smashing its climax in a few seconds And plucked pawpaw for Papa and Maa You also ate and felt no hunger anymore Ada, your brother could cultivate fifty furrows And on the same day, had bags of seeds to sow Vedinand never came home with empty hands We saw joy when we saw him open the ban He fed Maa Ike, fed Ike and fed Papa We gulped catchew juice and slurped soup of okpa Ike, your brother fell sick for a single week I took up his tasks but my bones were weak Your mother would wince at the little I brought She spoke of hunger as if food never had touched her tongue Her constant screams soon took away my son He died crying his mother was hurt I added to my strength after your brother’s death But all Maa Ike could was to pay with hate She hated the hunter and taught her daughter To hate and flout her father’s orders Ada, the hated hunter is going forever And the days of hate will soon expire. The hunter stopped talking and started coughing. Ada dashed into the room to get some water but her mother sat her down saying the hunter was a lazy irresponsible man. Before Ada could break away from her mother, her hunter father had breathed his last. The last minute love Ada had for her father ran wild in her which made her hate her mother. 'You killed my only father!’ Ada did confront her mother. She took judgment in her hands and poisoned her mother. Ada for having murdered her mother hated herself more than Shaythorn did Adam. As her guilt grew older and could no longer sleep at nights she surrendered herself to suicide.’ Abu Jihaad at this point observed a pause as though wanted to catch his breath. His face fell, focusing the floor of the podium. When he finally motioned out of his emotions, head high-up, his voice, now a bit shaky, muffled a naseehah to his listeners. ‘I recall my teacher saying, this story is as true as I am Mr Kasali. Learn its lessons. And never advocate hate.’ Bello Kolawole Mustapha (A Ghareeb Poet) Social Media Handles: Almustapha Author (Facebook), almustapha_author (Instagram) Meet Almustapha@ http://almustapha-author.com/meet-almustapha/ 1. Syria- by: Shukroh Abdulhameed Dismembered bodies of victims were displayed in a Muslim country for Allah's sake, and we ask, where are other Islamic states as these people clamour for help, Strained voices of Syrians asking for our support, and the mercy of God. 250,000 have lost their lives and 4 million have fled their homes, their comfort zone, women and children fighting alone, their families have been stricken by drones, And the world can help A country can help, You can help Your prayers can help, your deeds can help in saving Syrians, from upheavals. 2. Can the real terrorist please stand- by: Baniaz Hayila As the call for prayer came, declaring the end of dusk, I broke my eighteenth fast, with some dates and leftover husk. I washed myself so clean, to stand before my Lord, I cleaned my mouth of filth, to declare the Oneness of God, I wore my woven cap, to head now down the street, On my way I saw, gazes that refused to meet. Some quietly shut their eyes, some slowly widened in fear, Some simply couldn't believe, that a Muslim man was here. In a downtown European lane, with his gaze cast so low, Was he shielding within them secrets, of the next city about to blow? His gait was oh so careful, sidestepping all that mud, His clothes so white and clean, was he preparing them all for blood? Thoughts in their heads so loud, they could almost reach my ears, Their lips, though tightly clutched, told me all their fears. They had seen me on the TV, a grenade in my hand, Or sometimes beheading a child, bent low on Arab sand. They blamed me for An Istanbul, of a Syria and an Afghanistan, And that I was behind the killing, of my brothers in Pakistan. They said I had killed in Yemen, in Germany and in London, They say in Burma I killed my dad and in Palestine I killed my son. They blamed me for the murders, of thousands of my kin, They told me I'm Muslim, and that's enough to be my sin. As a Ramadan comes I watch, my brothers being killed, In bomb blasts and blazing fires, their deaths guised as they willed. Why would a Muslim man, kill so many of his own? In this month of mercy, will he wish to sin alone? So many years of silence, with Muslims taking the blame, Unsure of their part, they've naively shouldered the shame. A conspiracy in the making, where too many have had a hand, Isn't it high time now, for the real terrorist to please stand? -Baniaz Hayila is an Indian writer on issues sensitive to the Muslim world. Her works can be followed on Instagram under the handle @word_bound. Also a fellow at Young Muslim Digest magazine. . 3. Titleless- by: Sobur Abuamal Adedokun This is not a love poem this is a child and there is a city inside of her please do not cause an earthquake in her soul when she asks for what beauty means and you tell her the same thing they shoved down your throat before you removed half your clothes to become a six letter word when a strip of hair from your plucked eyebrow settles on her tender palm and she asks if plucking your eyebrows makes you see things better, remember that your child carries a vase inside of her and vases break do not tell her the things they told you before you became small enough to fit in mascara tubes -Sobur Adedokun is a young Nigerian poet, fellow at the Ghareeb Institute and Knowislam.com.ng Join him on Facebook at https://m.facebook.com/sobur.adedokun 4. O modernist - Abdulfattah Morakinyo O modernist, catch on to this call Of warning and admonition from the moans of A soul that is cautious and want(s) you cautioned That your actions are nothing but reprehensible. Conservative is this Deen, please know! No going further, it's complete! No changing of rulings in some different eopch When you opine they (the) proofs aren't seasoned. O modernist, get (it) into your brainbox That forever, the veil must match with the trends! O modernist, get your instincts aware That till the end of time, the trousers must jump! O modernist, desist from being an orientalist Who has got no work than to find reasons For every action linking to the time and society Saying that was then and happened there. Less I have to say for succinctness matters For unnecessary verbosity is that of the orientalist Hate this thinking and mix with garbage Then gain some pride from being called a fundamentalist. -Abdulfattah Morakinyo Wittage 5...CHAINED...by: Aliyyu Abdullahi Abalhasan I'm so clean Yet so dirty Tainted by sins I'm so slow Yet so fast In the race to my doom I'm so fearless Yet terrified To face little demons I'm so heavy Yet so light On heavenly scales I'm generous Yet so stingy Towards my Deen I'm a novice Yet an expert In the art of sinning I'm a scholar Yet a layman In the next world I'm a victim Yet a sucker Of my own follies I'm a master Yet a slave Chained by desires Aliyyu abalHasan is a Nigerian poet who translates Arabic poems and songs. 6. .A. Map To Heaven- Lan Rey Hassan I have learnt to trace the lines on my palms to God, some sweep over the palms- like spread limbs of a Corolla donning its fused petals- and lounge into paradise. you will say the lines on your fingers lead to different places but there are Ninety-nine gates to paradise, Roses can be sanctuaries when given to girls looking to hide their own blood in its redness- from predators preying on them, lurking lewdly around, waiting to see the first blood trickle down their thighs; Mubtadi'ahs. whispers can be music -sweeter than dulcet songs of bird's- when they gardle the heart with warmth, like soothing whispers of a woman's love, And pebbles too can be pearls with your lover's name engraved, a coin can have a thousand times its value, if given out for the sake of Allah. The search for Jannah is the mother of all voyages, but the Maps I have seen only lead to safe havens on Earth, (if there is one) but never heaven, it is the lines on your palm that can lead to paradise, when the palm gives to the poor from that which your mind carries a touch. Quran 3:92: "By no means shall you attain paradise (Allah's reward) unless you give, out of that which you love. And whatever good you spend, Allah knows it well" Uthman ibn 'Affan: "Your charity will never be accepted until you belive: I need the reward more than he needs the money." . Lan Rey Hassan is a ghareeb poet and fellow at Knowislam.com.ng. Join him on Facebook @ facebook.com/adebanjo.abdulazeez.90 7. Rabbul Ka'bah- by: Adedokun Abdurrahman To whom much is given, much is expected, but Rabbul Ka'bah, I have left the Qur'an on shelves now besprinkled with antique dust, but you still have not forbidden my heart from finding rest in the promise of Eden, like grains of balley settle in their husks. I have for years, turned away. from you, going on voyages into life, but I read the Qur'an today and it is still there, that you are closer to me than my jugular veins. I have not hearkened to your call in ages but, I walked past Gezzah today and the muezzin still called me unto you, unto success. To whom God is given, much should be expected, but the Qur'an does not agree, except if Taubah is much, So, after ages of deserting you, I turn to you and say, "I am still sinning" And yet you reply, "I am still forgiving" *Seeking forgiveness -Taubah. Abdurrahman Adedokun is a teenage poet from the Ghareeb Institute. join him on Facebook @ facebook.com/adebanjo.abdulazeez.90 |
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