Daniel Abdal-Hayy Moore

Try to describe light and it's hopeless/ Nothing can quite catch in words luminous nothingness/ Hold something up in light and it's revealed in it say a/ miniature Easter Island head now brought out in its/ full strangeness by the surrounding illumination/ But how can you hold up something like light in light and hope to achieve/ the thing the flash the flat surrounding splashy airiness of brightness/ in whose beneficence everything/ including us is revealed?...

Of the three books collected here, the first is celebratory of Islam's eschatology (next-world doctrine), the second an homage to the Prophet Muhammad, peace and blessings of Allah be upon him, and the third written on an 'Umra in 1995/96 to Mecca and Medina... These are all poems of my root work, going down into the loam of study, practice and fidelity to the ideas and often the terminology of Islamic and Sufic thought, while my poetic development since these book incorporates more imaginally leaping imagery and unhesitantly associational language, to more openly circumscribe both the tone and experience of a modern American but cosmopolitan Muslim/Sufi in our very promising but rambunctiously tumultuous times.

SHAKING THE QUICKSILVER POOL: Poems that point to Infinite Beauty (The Book of Infinite Beauty being the too ambitious previous title of this collection), which is only Allah, al-Jamal, Who created everything out of love in a balance of Beauty and Majesty, two attributes sometimes clearly manifest, sometimes at odds with each other, as seen by our clouded human perceptions. But behind every event and every creation, is that Infinite One, and the quicksilver pool is our total existence here, which, to focus more intensely, we might give a shake (our selves), to see God's Face in the things we see...

In all the human spiritual paths there are stories of great men and women of divine gnosis who die in states of exaltation, sweet relief, or harmonious blending with the Next World that is more of a pause, almost a whisper. And their deaths, while entering holy silence, bring into stronger emphasis their erstwhile presence among people as teachers and examples of true humanity and sincere piety, as if their own lives are proof-positive of God's merciful existence, and their deaths simply a continuing chapter in the Great Adventure. // There are poems about roses blooming on rose-stems/rising and swaying in an air of delirious voices//Love Lord is the fertile earth Your rich compost/black soil of death and disaffiliation that/precedes growth

YOU OPEN A DOOR AND IT'S A STARRY NIGHT: What is this life to us if it's not a continual wonder, whose elements of surprise should lead us to recognition of the Source? A continuation of the Ecstatic Exchange Project of putting a life in poetry, and poetry in life, in the new voice of a radiantly indigenous application of the Prophet Muhammad's revelation, peace be upon him, and its living and instantaneous continuation through enlightened teachers / ...a sky full of small circular rainbows like/pinwheels, small enough to see the/radiant sheen of their entire/circumference spinning,/ a door you open and it's a starry night...

MILLENNIAL PROGNOSTICATIONS: This is not a book of poetic futuristics, oracle-like I-Ching countings or consciousness Tarot readings, nothing so formal nor formulated. Perhaps its "prognostication" aspect is in trying to be open-hearted and sense-aware of images and their meanings, or meanings and their images, as they occur in the world both most immediate to us and by extension universal and even cosmic, detail by detail, focusing on what Blake called "minute particulars." It's a kind of lengthy prayer with sidebars, digressions and returns, hopefully each time more earnestly to the Source of all and of Whom, as it was said by the Prophet Muhammad, peace of Allah be upon him, "Do not curse time, for time is Allah..."

THROUGH ROSE COLORED GLASSES is a book of visionary poems mindful of the story of Sayyedina 'Isa (Jesus), peace be upon him, who one day passed by a decaying dog carcass in the road with his companions, and replied, when they complained at how rank it smelled, "Yes, but its teeth are beautiful!" We can live our lives in misery seeing only the miserable aspects of this often grindingly difficult existence, or in peace seeing the beauteous and majestic Handprint of The Divine Reality in everything. These often ecstatic poems, mindful of the former, prefer the latter for their inspiration and their goal.

THE FIRE EATER'S LUNCHBREAK: What does happen when we stop swallowing the flame, whatever it might be? This world, our own drudgery, our passions, low or high, that locus of our experience we call "I" - and take a break? There's a Sufi text by Shaykh ibn 'Ata Illah whose title I've always loved: "The Giving Up of the Management of Your Affairs." Neat trick! But somehow that's also the key to the present title, and God willing to something of the poems this book contains. Poem: His High Command/and an ant's vibrating antenna//The horrors of war/and a newborn's uncurling fingers//Flash floods/and a dry riverbed gurgling//The heart alone/and entire humanity's pulse beat

IN THE REALM OF NEITHER: I had a dream just before waking of a shelf filled with books, and I was reading the titles when a spotlight hit the spine of one book that also seemed to protrude from the others and be coming out of the shelf toward me. On it were the words "In the Realm of Neither" that remained vivid and unforgettable upon waking...(poem) If all the wood in the world were to sing/and every rose gave a political speech/and every cloud took pity on its neighbor/and every stone composed an epic poem about/being a stone and each of us saw God direct with our/own eyes in naked vision/as clearly as we see ourselves stooping to/drink from a lake...

This may be my most personal book, as I wrote this collection of poems as an attempt to definitively and honestly connect in a deep way with Farid, my teenage stepson. "Ah, since you're not my/ natural son, you can be my/ supernatural son! No actual genes of mine// swim in your blood, your flesh doesn't/ resemble mine, though since I've been your/ dad from the time you were two, we now have a/ definite// family resemblance, leaping over/ genetic fact like some sleek green grasshopper of/ supernatural light."

Poetic inspiration continues to be a mystery to me, but I am its deep advocate, and hold to its irrational and shady acreage like a greedy real estate developer gazing out over the possibilities (a ramshackle hut here, a barn there, a castle with a lake yonder...). Is it angels, djinn, my black cat curled at the bottom of my bed while I'm hot in composition mode? My "unconscious," "God Consciousness?" (my fervent prayer).