Oh Captain! My Captain!

Today my sisters and I did our history class and the topic was Abraham Lincoln's assassination. As a part of our class we read a poem which was written shortly after Lincoln's death by a man called Walt Whitman. I really liked it as I believe it has a good rhythm. It is an abstract poem - Lincoln is the Captain and his ship is the United States.

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,

The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won,

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;

But O heart! heart! heart!

O the bleeding drops of red,

Where on the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;

Rise up---for you the flag is flung---for you the bugle trills,

For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths---for you the shores a-crowding,

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

Here Captain! dear father!

This arm beneath your head!

Is it some dream that on the deck,

You've fallen cold and dead.

   My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,

The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,

From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;

Exult O shores, and ring O bells!

But I walk with mournful tread,

Walk the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

A Letter from Hell

Dear lost soul…

     I’ve heard of you. About your personal life; the drinking, partying, gossiping, backbiting, and all of that. Maybe you should reevaluate your life; think about what purpose it holds. Because at the moment there is no benefit in your life. It may seem fun for a little while but the consequences outweigh the pleasure. Trust me, I know.

     I was like you once, participating in the haram acts of the world. Oh, how I regret it now. I really, really wish that I could come back and fix my life, have another go. But I can’t, no matter how much I wish to.

     When I was little I was taught to always lead the life of a good Muslim and to follow Allah’s (swt) laws to the letter. I did as I was told; I prayed, fasted, gave to the poor… up to my 21^st birthday. Something happened and before I knew what was happening I was done for. I could have fought it, redeemed myself, but I was enjoying myself too much. My conscience played havoc but I learned to ignore it. I lied to myself, told that little voice of good that keep pestering me that if it was enjoyable it was okay. How wrong I was.

     I truly regret my life and I wish, wish to heaven and back that I had done better, done more good. But I didn’t and I don’t have any excuses either. I was given enough warnings; my Father was a scholar of Islam for Pete’s sake. I wish that I had listened to him and my Mother when they warned me of my weak Iman. They did everything, short of whipping me. A part of me kinda wish they had; although I don’t believe it would have done any good: I was too far gone.

     Looking back over this letter I see the word “wish” pop up again and again. My “free” life style has led me into an everlasting life of suffering and regret. If I could have anything I would choose to go back and redo my life – redeem myself and prove to everybody that I’m not a no-count Muslim who can’t follow her faith. But I will never be given that chance, because I proved I’m not trustworthy to be given one.

     I don’t want anyone else to fall in the trap I did so that’s why I want you to listen, to follow my advice. Don’t give in to the temptations of life, because when it comes down to it – it’s just not worth the consequences. Concentrate more on your Iman, and build your life along with the one after death. The life you are living isn’t important - it’s just a hurdle, a stepping stone to the real life, the life that counts.

Living in continuous Shame and Regret; 
A Permanent Resident of Hell

The Lesson

I actually wrote this poem for a homework assignment. However, the assignment was to write a page essay on the purpose of our lives but mine turned into a 1 and 1/2 page poem. 

A few nights ago, my sister approached me

In her nightdress, hair loose and free

Her brow was drawn, her mouth set in a frown;

Never before had I seen her so down.

“What’s wrong little sister?” I asked concerned

She looked at me as if I was someone wise, learned

“I have a hard question to ask you” she said, timid, afraid

“One that has been bothering me all this long day.”

I was confused, with questions she always came

They spanned across every subject you could ever name.

I always answered them easily, so simple they were to me

How much more difficult could this one really be?

She sat down on the couch, snuggled up close to me

She laid her fair head on my firm knee

So long she lay there, silent, I began to fear

That she had fallen asleep, right then and there.

But finally she spoke, and the question was like a knife

“Big sister, what is the purpose of our lives?”

I stared down at her, blank, confused, stunned

Never in my life had I felt so deflated, chastened.

My sister thinks the world of me,

She always looks up to me

What would she think if I didn’t know the answer?

And why, I thought, did it really matter?

Then I realised, I thought myself high

Because I knew more, my head was up in the sky

Floating around in the clouds overhead,

I wasn’t paying attention to my future ahead

I thought about the answer requested of me

“What is the purpose in life? What did it mean?

I felt confused, drained, and weak

 I felt afraid, insecure, and meek

I looked down at my sisters golden head

I fingered her thick locks, my heart full of dread.

But finally, “I’m not sure,” I quietly answered

She looked up, “Ask Mother,” she said.

I did as my little sister advised

And my Mother looked at me, surprised

“That is the second time I’ve been asked that today,”

“The first time was your sister,” she said, to my dismay

I knew then that this was all a test

A lesson by my sister to prove I’m not the best.

A lesson to prove that I don’t everything there is to know

And it was the greatest lesson on me, my sister could bestow

I had been proud

I had had my head in the clouds

Now that it knew that

The answer that I sought was... what?

My Mother began to talk and I listened

Eager to learn what was life’s great lesson

What is our purpose in life?

Why did we go through daily tests and strife?

Mother spoke slow and clear

I paid close attention, I was so sincere;

None of this precious information did I want to miss,

No information did I dismiss.

“The purpose in life,” My Mother began

As she talked, my features she scanned,

“Is to obey Allah (swt) our one, true lord

And to follow the Qur’an, our god’s word.”

“We should follow Islam every step of the way,

For every single minute of every single day

That my dear daughter is the purpose of our lives here

To worship our one god and ask him to bring us near.”

Mother made it so simple, so pure

And suddenly I felt so… secure

I knew the purpose of my being,

I knew the answer, the meaning

I kissed my dear Mother goodnight

Walked to my bedroom, turned on the light.

I said my Dua’s before getting into bed,

I read my Qur’an before resting my weary head

The next morning I was shy of my sister

Avoiding her all the way up to after dinner

I was in my room and she came to my door

With a question to ask, just like the years before.

Like the years before I knew the answer

But this time that didn’t matter.

Yes, I had answers, many altogether

But this time I held out a hand instead,

“Come little sister; let’s find the answers, together”

French Revolution

This is one of my first reasonably written poems. I wrote it at the age of 13.

I have lived in France my whole life,

I have never left her shores.

And even though I hate the king,

It was a shock to hear he's no more.

The men cheered, the women cried,

Their tears mingled with their smiles.

The king is dead, no more shall die,

We are in a state of denial.

Is this news true?

Is it time to move past?

Has this horror ended?

Are we free, at last?

I cannot stand all those executions,

I am sick of all these deaths.

I want the guillotine banned,

I want it put to rest!

Our country was tormented!

Our country was betrayed!

Is this Revolution our answer?

Is it by them, we will be saved?

Is the terror over?

Will peace reign?

Our country has been torn apart,

By sorrow, and by pain.

The tyrant of a king is dead.

The monarchy is over!

Will democracy succeed?

Or will, this start all over?

A Mother's Last Words

This poem was my submission for a Ramadan Poetry Contest last Ramadan (August-September 2010). I managed to get into the finals (top six) but sadly I didn't place in the top three.



Compare, if you will, two flowers the same

Except one is vibrant and fresh, the other crumpled and plain

They lay in my hand, one in each palm

And looking at them, I experience a strange calm

My mind goes back in time, I begin to reflect

And I realise I have a lot to correct

I ask myself, ‘when was the last time you prayed?’

‘And when was the last time you freely gave aid?’

I sit down then, right there on the grass

I start crying, the tears come fast

I don’t know what made me feel this way

So sad, so helpless, so full of dismay

I stare down bleakly at my balled-up fist

I feel confused, surely there’s something I’ve missed

Something is wrong, there’s something I should know

I struggle to remember, my confusion grows

I grow frustrated, I clutch at the flowers

Then breaking through my rage, a sound that empowers

I hear my Mother’s gentle voice, so near, so treasured

And my tears run freely as her last words, I remember

She died in the month of Ramadan, the very last night

And even though she was in pain, her face was lit with light

She clasped my hand and brought me near

And whispered to me, her voice frail, yet clear

She told me of Ramadan, her favourite month of the year

And of how everyday she would spread hope and cheer

I remembered vaguely of her always being away from home

Always in Ramadan, she would go out alone

She told me of what Ramadan brings

Peace, Forgiveness, Happiness, Blessings

She told me to make sure others know

She grasped my hand tight and begged me to go

She told me to continue on after her death

She was staring at me as she drew her last breath

Then she died with the Shahadah echoing on her pale lips

And in her features I could see the toll of many hardships

I didn’t carry on her work

I refused to acknowledge her last words

I closed myself off from the whole of Islam

I had left the straight path for the path of harm

And as I stood there with the flowers in my hands

I recalled a story my Mother had taught me from our homeland 

Three dates she gave me after Iftar

She asked me to identify their differences, I thought it bizarre

I did as she asked, I examined all three

And when I was finished she asked for my decree

I told her the truth, one was fresh, one dried

And the last was cracked, brittle and split down the side

She smiled as if pleased and gathered me close

She then asked me how the rest of the lesson goes

I look up at her, uncomprehending, confused

She smiled again, picked up some dates, just two

One was the fresh one, the other was the dried

I gave no response to my Mother’s wide questioning eyes

‘The fresh date represents a true Muslim’ she said

‘The dry one is a disbeliever, instead’

She pauses before picking up the last date; she waited for a reaction

Then she holds up the last date, the one which was hardened

She waits for a little longer then she slowly tells me

This one represents a Kuffar and a hypocrite, do you see? 

I didn’t get it then but I sure get it now

I finally understand and will now make a vow

I called myself a Muslim while doing nothing at all

And now I will save myself from this head-long fall

Because that lesson my Mum taught me so long ago

Was not just a lesson but a life echo

What she showed me using just three dates

Is really what we are all trying to create

With this simple lesson we can learn

What is the key we are all trying to earn

The key to Paradise is simple to get

Just try to be the fresh date in each set

I cradled the flowers as I ducked indoors

I have to apply what I learnt to my life and more

I filled up a vase and placed the flowers inside

And ran to make wudo with Allah as my guide

That prayer was a first for a very long time

I had just started my prayer when the clock began to chime

I was full of thankfulness, cheer and more too

I’d realised I was free of the wrong I’d been going through

When I sat and studied Islam that night

I felt like a new person, full of radiant light

I looked out of the window out of pure chance

And when I saw what I saw I felt like doing a dance

For hanging up there in the heavens, was an inspiring sight

Glimmering softly against the blackness of night

 Moving slowly across the sky, slim and new

Was the brand new beautiful Ramadan Moon

Since my Mother had died I hadn’t fasted a day

But the present was different, before I had been astray

But now I didn’t fear Ramadan like I had in the past

Now I gladly went around preparing for my fast

That night long ago, when my mother breathed her last

She had told me the secret to the blessed month of the fast

I had nodded, pretending to comprehend

I hadn’t, and now I must make my amends

I am proud to be a Muslim, let everyone know

The lesson taught to me by my Mum so long ago

Stay away from harms way, try to do right

Especially in Ramadan, the blessed month of light 

A Mother’s last words everyone should heed

Often a little advice is all that you need

Follow my Mother’s lesson and pave your way clear

Build your Iman and make it sincere

Ramadan is not to be dreaded and feared

As many different things its not what it appears

Sure it’s about fasting all day

But it’s also about who you obey

Do good in Ramadan, be your best

As we all know, life’s only a test

Be a good Muslim, keep up the good deeds

And maybe one day, we shall all succeed

Peace, Sincerity, Forgiveness and more

This is what Ramadan brings to every Muslim’s door

Do what my Mum told me all those years past

“Treat every Ramadan as if it’s your last”