and then our exile

"for God is not forgetful of what you do."

--

the night is shattered // and the blue stars shiver in the distance
...
and the verse falls to the soul as dew to a pasture. (Neruda.)

The same night whitening the same trees. This is the world in which we live and die. i am told i should say something about what i do, why, how long it will take, and so on. Essentially--i try to live, because i was born: i do not know how long it will take, but i wish it not one moment of excess.

What is life? One tale: that life is the art of definition. Defining purpose, meaning, defining the consequences of each, and only then requisite following action, and again definition: of the act itself, its background and future: here, in this sense, definition becomes intention, and defining intention then the most critical, the most intrinsic sliver of life.

"'innama'l-'amaalu bi'n-niyyaat' contains a third of all knowledge" --Imam Shafi'ee, raheemuhuLlah.

Words are metaphors, the definitions of metaphors. Syllables only their physical formations. Their "meaning": simple allusions to the metaphors. And this is why precision in speech (precision in language) (precision of definition) is so critically important: because the consequences become life itself. And some regard this as poetry.
Speech created: because we are all agglomorates of our words, our "own" words, reaching for the Uncreated Word.

What is poetry? Poetry is an essence of Art, is not restricted to words: it is restricted to the /metaphor behind words/. The purpose of poetry is not "to delight", as Dryden pretends--that is confusion of sideproduct with objective: and because objective is defined as the vitality, it is fatal confusion for false conclusions. As any other sincere art, as philosophy or music or photography, it is a tool: to reveal/express of one's soul.

By way of Abu Muhammad: [a nasheed to listen to].

Yesterday afternoon: spent in the Shaikh Khalid graveyard. i discovered why the road is called Shari' Naqshbandi, met two Turkish brothers, and sat there until it was nearly maghrib. Leaves and cobblestone and marble, high up on the mountain: the view across the entire city to the curve of the hills on the other side, circling birds, and steeped in the lives loves dreams and despairs of those whose physical bodies had returned to Dust. And we too, the Call of Death, every second which passes is ripped of our axon-dendrites. May God forgive us.

A few days ago: E. and i trying to name the "four rooms a living room and a pool" we rent. The more elegant formations:
University of Shlone // Baytul-Mullah // Baytul-Muddah // Bayt mukhallil // Bayt UmmSalim // Professors McGoire's fantastic fasmagoria and eatery // Smellvis Has Left The Building // the No-Basits Club // eHopping EMad // the Last Crusaders // the Silent Citadel // Pasture of Rage and Glory // Palace of Frigid Luxury and Concrete Squalor // the Glasgow Smash // Glass Cow Isn't Tasty Steak // Crazy Pflinzen House // Joe Sherman's Alligator Steak Takeaway // the Four Beardos // the Gumbo Hideaway // the Ground Floor // This Side Up // Crackmonkey Ethics // the Best Thing Since Sliced Bread // the Fertile Cement // the Craggy Perch // Spanish Villa on the Water // Shoo Launak // the Shlone Buda Bayou.
How far the popular vote?

As a last note, when Arab radio plays Jingle Bells in Arabic, you realize the extent of collective loss.

beautiful as the sky...that the hands of the sisters Death and Night incessently softly wash again and ever again this soil'd world (Whitman)

Although many may be so myopic as to limit the role of Watson to simply that of a tool to convey the essential, the narrator’s function is, evidently, far more expansive. (FMaseehudDin)