This poem was an eight-minute gift that bobbed up from the ocean of poetry, making the whole day a yes.

the other Zaynab

by Tamam Kahn

I called for her, not expecting an answer
but because her impression–
like a fingerprint on glass­–
was missing from these tales,
her finger sugared with the juice of
a fresh apricot, the one that pressed
for a second or two on that glass mentioned above,
that is, if there was glass at all,
or a rough cup or a heavy Phoenician goblet
or a pane from Yemen, fitted
into the earthen wall
of some Meccan mansion, tinted
maybe a pale rose color,
like the blush on an apricot,
or the heat in her cheek the first time
Muhammad took her hand.

April 14, 2008, is my father’s 100th birthday. He would have loved today’s techno-inspired gadgets, and been disturbed by the decline of the readers of hardcover books.
Here’s a dish of cold pineapple and a wee taste of a poem by Bobby Burnes (from Tam O’ Shanter) for you, my centenarian papa. (Now the brogue has got me going, sipping the good, late-night words.)

While we sit bousing at the nappy,
An’ getting fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps and stiles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Where sits our sulky, sullen dame,
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm…
Inspiring bold John Barleycorn!
What dangers thou canst make us scorn!..
To gie them music was his charge:
He screw’d the pipes and gart them skirl,
Till roof and rafters a’ did dirl…

from Laughter in the dark of the moon

If they broke into the house “…their names
would be forever held
in dishonor among the Arabs,
because they had violated the privacy of women.”
from Martin Lings, Muhammad

A home may need the protection of mirth,
the guffaws of laughing women to fortify
the walls and windows. Giggling

finds its own way through the doors
into the ears of the assassins waiting outside,
where a man thumbs his knife, another

crouches impatient,
until they are all caught
by that raucous mood.
One imagines
his sister
and her silly friends inside,

so he sheathes the weapon. By now,
the women are holding their sides,
yelling,
“stop for the love of God,
I can’t take it!”

Two of the assailants grow sheepish.
One is trying not to laugh….

Peace on earth does not depend on quiet

~

Khadija visits Uncle Waraqa (a prosepoem)

Out came Uncle Waraqa, keen and vibrant, gesturing
with his tall staff, saying twice, Amin the Trustworthy,
well, well. I tried to say hello, but he was taking
Muhammad’s arm and pulling him into the house.
People of the Book have been whispering about this
for years – you’re the prophetized one. I can see it
in your face. Your eyes are skylight. Your life just
blew up.  And what do you think of that, boy?
Muhammad just looked at him as if the old man
were showing him rope tricks. He needed a life-line,
over the cliff as he was, and with a long drop beneath
him. The rope circled over the uncle’s head, he
couldn’t help but call out: In God’s name,
throw me the rope!

Uncle Waraqa laughed, Just like Abraham and Noah,
Moses and  Jesus – your own people will call you a liar.
Muhammad, very pale, replied, I’m losing my nerve,
and need to know – just whom do I serve?  Waraqa
looked at him hard and answered: Let go.
And my husband awoke inside his own life.