Splitting the Moon. Joel Hayward

right up until the time of finishing this book. Hundreds of poems have arisen from within me: most in praise of Allah but many also to capture moments of curiosity, wonder, joy, frustration, and disappointment at things I have observed occurring within or affecting the surprisingly disunited ummah.

      In many ways I became a Muslim at an unusual and difficult time, with relations between Muslims and non-Muslims severely strained by various factors. These include 9/11, the so-called War on Terror, 7/7 and other bombings, bans in European countries of minarets and burkas, Qur’an burnings, the rise of anti-Islamic groups like the English Defence League (the loutish and hateful protests of which I have twice observed first-hand) and a flood of new books which erroneously condemn Islam as brutish and backward. I have experienced anti-Muslim hostility myself, including a savage and highly dishonest tabloid attack and a steady trickle of unpleasant emails from anonymous people who claim I have betrayed my western values, and rendered myself unfit to hold senior posts, by embracing Islam. Some of the poems in this collection respond to those foolish and unenlightened views.

      As a poet my changes of religious affiliation and outlook could not have occurred at a more exciting time. Everything seems intense; everything feels intense. I therefore thank Almighty God that he let me come to Islam after having observed it from outside for four decades and then, in an era bursting with dramatic things to write about, he opened my eyes to the majesty of the Qur’anic revelation. I am a very fortunate poet and I pray insha’Allah that my poems have captured at least some of the colour, verve and pathos of today’s Islamic world.

      Joel Hayward

      September 2011

Beyond

      I wanted to write a poem

      Of You

      That does not

      Include me

      But my first word here was

      I and I

      Want to say I’m sorry

      But that’s also about me

      You Oh Lord

      Are beyond words

      Anyway

      Even the prettiest

      Are shabby

      Compared to Your heart

      Of love

      Even words that sound

      The same

      As their meaning –

      Scrumptious, Graceful

      Sweetheart –

      Are clumsy and ugly

      Compared to

      Your name

      Words as fragrant

      As their flowers –

      Carnations, violets,

      Goldenrods,

      Dahlias –

      Wither as weeds

      When Your warmth

      Radiates as midday

      From the pages of Your Book

      A poem of You

      Needs only one word

      Or ninety-nine

      And it is finished

The Voyage of a Scholar

      On the day that paper clips and files

      And memos snowed upon a city

      I opened an unfamiliar book

      To see what had brought that storm

      Each night I brushed back dreams

      By turning pages of profundity

      To learn what had placed death

      In the eyes of passport photos

      The heavens opened for

      Forty days within my mind and

      Soul in a Noah’s flood of

      Confusing certainties

      The willing dead were absent in

      Every word but my forty days

      Left greater questions buoyant

      And curiosity unvanquished

      I sailed twenty times

      In seven years through

      Surah seas of calm swells

      Pushed by winds of conscience

      Twenty times I charted their

      Depths – truly Pacific –

      Before I knew that I

      Knew nothing

      When tranquil winds lifted

      La ilaha illallah I heard a soft Muhammadur Rasulullah Slip without thought from my lips

      A book read twenty times asked

      When I would embrace its truth

      And in a small stillness I replied

      Now oh Lord, Now

Arab Spring

      Hands clenched, passions wrenched

      Hearts ablaze, these days of rage

      Shouts in the air, pauses for prayer

      Streets, squares, mosques, theirs

      Hearts freed, knees bleed,

      Proud, aloud, unbowed crowd

      Freedom sought, its shape unthought

      Unknown ideal, substance not real

      Grass is greener, democracy leaner

      Cigarette smoking, despots choking

      Forgotten youth and unseen truth

      Confused eyes, fleeing spies, sons’ lies

      Streets, squares, no longer theirs

      Ranting, railing, panting, flailing

      Heads full of pain, nothing to gain

      Power grasping, compromise asking

      Opportunity lost, everything cost

      Posterity crushing and the end fast rushing

Your Book

      I read your words and hear whispered reminders

      As my tired eyes struggle across dots and black curves

      While I ponder and wonder and stare holding my chin

      As wisdom tries to sneak inside crowds of thoughts on life

      I read your words and hear my slow breathing, deep

      And know that on that day it will cease and I’ll sleep

      And then blink inside your sun-drenched calmness

      As I step forward to hear your thoughts on my life

      I read your words and feel the tug of sad conscience

      And know whom I’ve let down, helped and annoyed

      When you wanted more and yet I gave so little

      And wasted time as I walked too quickly through life

      I closed my eyes darkly and called back your words

      And slid them silently from my tongue into my room

      Where they’ll circle and swarm close to my pillow

      As I ask for their meaning and the warmth of their life