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Poem: Wa La Nablu Wanna Kum – Novid Shaid

In appreciation of Sura Baqarah (chapter 2), Verse 155.

 

Wa La Nablu Wanna Kum

I’d heard this verse

Many times before

But I fell in the world’s momentum

And now I’m drawn,

Like a looping moth

To the light of

Wa La Nablu Wanna Kum

 

I’d heard this verse

So deep and terse

But I swayed in a sea of fevers

But now I am swept

Like a floating wreck

To the shores of

Wa la Nablu Wanna Kum

 

I’d heard this verse

With a heart immersed

In the dread of the world’s hysteria

But now the only thing to panic-buy

Is the key for

Wa la Nablu Wanna Kum

 

I’d heard this verse

In the Friday prayers

While my mind viewed conspiracy theories

But now the fake news

Needs to be rebuked

With the truth of

Wa la Nablu Wanna Kum

 

I’d heard this verse

In the universe

Of talks and the deen intensives

But now all the notes

And inspiring quotes

Need to act on

Wa la Nablu Wanna Kum

 

I’d heard this verse

When things were worse

For the poor folk mired in outbreaks

But now the vaccine

For my uncertainties

Is the pledge of

Wa la Nablu Wanna Kum

 

Novid Shaid, March 2020

THE GREAT REPLACEMENT by Novid Shaid

Poet, author and educator Novid Shaid pens a heartfelt poem in the aftermath of the Christchurch massacre.

THE GREAT REPLACEMENT
By Novid Shaid, March 2019

Let’s implement the Great Replacement
Let’s make the world supreme again!

Let’s replace the fear of the other
With the cheer of true brothers

Let’s replace the blaming of immigrants
With the blaming of ignorance

Let’s replace the scourge of racial supremacy
With the urge for common humanity

Let’s replace the illusion of racial supremacy
With the fusion of racial diversity

Let’s replace the sentiment of “they’re invading us,”
With the sentiment of “they’re guests for us.”

Let’s replace the darkness of cultural ignorance
With the understanding of cultural difference

Let’s replace the knee-jerk to separate and withdraw
With cooperating for the common good and the law

Let’s replace the vermin of extremist violence
With the sacred sermons of listening silence

Let’s replace the fifth columns of conspiracy
With the true solemn acts of charity

Let’s replace the fake news on racial extermination
And take views on racial invigoration

Let’s replace the ghettos of hatred and malice
With the gardens of love and compassion

Let’s replace the dread of Trojan horses, hidden
With the sincere search for the truth within

Let’s replace the desire to nuke a whole race
With the desire to invigorate the human race

Let’s replace the fear of Muslims and Islam
With true knowledge to avert future harm

Let’s implement the Great Replacement
Let’s make the world supreme again!

To see more of this author’s work, visit his website at www.novid.co.uk. 

When A Poet From Tipperary Tried To Outdo Al Busiri, By Novid Shaid

Once there was a poet

Who hailed from Tipperary

One day he said: “I know what I’ll do

I’ll be the new Busiri!

I am going to be the one and only

I am going to be a star

Muslims from all around will cheer

This is the new burda!

I’ll use a catchy rhythm

I’ll think of amazing rhymes

Similes and metaphors

It’ll be most sublime!

Then after I’ve completed it

I’ll have a special dream

The Prophet will come up to me

With a cloak from the unseen!

I’ll wake and there I’ll find it

Enwrapped around my chest

A miracle, a fine burda

At the holy Prophet’s behest!

Then people will come and read it

They’ll find it heavenly

The royalties will flow and flow

I’ll be an Islamic celebrity!”

 

So, he went and told his missus

She couldn’t help but deride

“You nincompoop!” She chided him

“Al Busiri was half-paralysed!”

“I don’t care!” Said the poet

“I’m gonna hit the big time

I’ll prove to you that I can write

The most scintillating rhyme!”

 

So, he went and sat on a wooden bench

Inside the local park

He mused: “right here amongst the trees

I will write with perfect art.”

But as he wrote, he struggled

Nothing was forthcoming

So he decided there to take a nap

Maybe a dream would inspire him.

As he was awakening

He felt something enshrouding him

Inside he said: “subhan Allah!

This must be from Him!”

He awoke with expectation

His ego feeling finer

But to his horror and disgust

He was wrapped in a great bin-liner!

“What on earth is this!” He raged

And suddenly he noticed

A bearded most singular man

He thought: “he must be homeless.”

The old man said: “I’m sorry

But I thought you needed that

I didn’t want you to be cold

Especially in this cold snap.”

“You cheeky sort!” Cried the poet

“Keep yourself to yourself!”

The old man gazed into his eyes

“I know what’s good for your health.”

“What are you blabbering on about

You bumbling, dithering looney!”

Growled the poet growing red and red

Like a bloated strawberry.

The old man said: “you need this burda

This burda around my heart.”

The poet stared at the man and cried:

“There’s no burda there you tart!”

“Aah!” sighed the man, glowing

“You have to look carefully

The cloak that I refer to

Is the cloak of sincerity.

Its thread is made of slavehood

The pattern spells out mercy

Then you have to weave it

With the needles of poverty

When you write and only write

For Blessed Mustafa

When you love and only love

For our One Maker Allah

You will see He works through you

You will see His Mustafa.”

The poet went home gloomy

But at home things weren’t much finer

His wife said: “here, I need some help!”

And she handed him a bin-liner!

 

[cwa id=’cta’]

Resources for seekers

Prayers on the Prophet for the Night Journey

Poet Novid Shaid reflects on one of the most significant events in Muslim history.

On the 27th night of Rajab, the Prophet ﷺ was taken on the Isra wa Mi’raj – The Night Journey and Ascension to the Heavens. This was a glorious night, as is known to most Muslims, in which the Prophet ﷺ met his Lord and was given the commandment to perform the five daily prayers.

Oh Allah send Your prayers and peace upon him

And upon his companions and kin

By the number of pearls of sweat on al buraq

Which cascaded as the sage ascended him

By the number of prayers the rider invoked

And the flutters of wings of his companions

By the number of sand stones at Al Aqsa

Which intoned his praise as he dismounted

By the number of Prophets that humbly stood

As the chosen one led with equilibrium

And the number of contours in the rock

And the streams of wind as the travellers took off

By the number of times the wise one was hailed

By each Prophet as the levels he scaled

And the number of shimmering branches on Al Muntaha

Ad infinitum they communed Lover and Beloved

From the day You made this life

To the end when we arise

Every day a thousand times!

Resources on the Isra wa Mi’raj, The Night Journey

The Grass by Novid Shaid

“All things hang like a drop of dew
Upon a blade of grass”. W B Yeats

A lush and fertile patch of grass shivered in the breeze, sighing blissfully. Fully exposed to the benevolent sun and enriched by the timely monsoons, the grass grew to a staggering height, accommodating countless creatures great and small. Nothing, so it seemed, could curtail its life-force; nothing could obstruct the sun or the rain replenishing it. The grass was suffused with a rich and deep shade of green, so much so that just to look upon it brought relief to hearts, just to hear its whispers in the wind brought tranquility to troubled minds.

But times changed; people changed; natures evolved; subtle ideas began to fester. A snake from beyond settled in the grass, twisting its coil between the blades and whispering subtle suggestions to the very roots of the green sea. Time elapsed; the snake slithered away, but its ideas had taken root; the grass was spellbound. Now the blessings of the sun and the rain were mistaken for rights; fortune was misinterpreted as certainty. Although the sun continued to beam its rays upon everything and the rain still tumbled down, the grass had grown thick in its own delusions of grandeur and its right to the blessings from above. Without it realising, the roots below turned a sickly yellow and each blade of grass began to smell rank and rotten to the core. Suddenly, humans arrived, with their hulky, moving machinery, dumping all their garbage and rubble from their developments, covering the grass with a dense layer of suffocating trash. A vast cloud of stifling dust rose after an immense vehicle unloaded mounds of dirt on the once green patch.

Now the grass felt this calamity spreading through its veins; each blade flattened by the grey flood. Its heart lamented as it lay deep beneath the rubble, divorced from the light above, cut off from the rain. Its blissful sighs had now turned into smothered cries for deliverance. It had not anticipated this catastrophe and now, flattened in the darkness, it confounded the snake it had listened to so enrapt, and it cried for the sun to reach it once again, for the rain to touch the tips of its blades.

So the sun still shone; the rains still fell; the earth still revolved. Desperate and humbled, the grass cried out from the darkness. Time healed. The sun’s rays slowly penetrated the ground, the rain drops crept through the earth.

Until one day, out of all the toxic mass and trash, something stood out proudly from the earth, like an outstretched index finger, like a spirit awakened, touched by the sun’s rays, refreshed by a lingering drop of dew: a blade of grass.

Novid Shaid, June 2015
www.novid.co.uk

The Hidden One’s – A Debut Novel by Novid Shaid

They pass us on the street; they serve us in shops; they go to our schools, but their profound realities are hidden… They are the hidden ones and the light that protects them ensures that they will remain hidden until the end of time. Layla, Khadim and Rose live in an average town in the UK. Each of them is haunted by a darkness which threatens to consume them and those around them. An assassin has been dispatched; a child-snatcher is on the prowl and a ruthless gang is closing in. Unique, alienated and vulnerable, the hidden ones must confront these darknesses with their hidden lights.
No fear is upon them; nor shall they grieve.
This debut novel by Novid Shaid weaves together the genres of supernatural, mystery and Sufi mysticism. Fast-paced, haunting and moving, this tale was written as a consequence of the author’s travels and meetings with remarkable people around the world. Inspiration was also drawn from an eclectic range of works including Stephen King’s “The Green Mile”, Ibn Al Arabi’s “Sufis of Andalucia” and Yann Martell’s “The Life of Pi”.
NOVID SHAID’S DEBUT NOVEL, THE HIDDEN ONES, IS NOW AVAILABLE In PAPERBACK FOR $9 FROMAMAZON.COM AND ALSO WITH AMAZON KINDLE/KINDLE APPS FOR ONLY $5 DOWNLOAD IT TODAY!

Law & Love, A Short Story by Novid Shaid, 2014

“We have three reliable witnesses,” explained Mullah Ameer, “who are ready to testify that Azmat Khan consumed whisky and consorted with an unknown courtesan during his nephew’s wedding.” And with that, he gazed across the bare room, where Mullah Ghazi sat against the wall, resting against a cushion. The latter looked worried, like his heart was aching.
“So, he will face the judges and he will feel the penalty. This district will see how serious we are; they will see the law of Allah ruling over them.”
After some silence, Mullah Ghazi looked up at Mullah Ameer and sighed. His large, deep eyes swelled with remorse:
“You know that he is sorry and you know that this has not become public knowledge yet.”
Mullah Ameer sat up from his diwan, which he had been resting against, “what are you saying Ghazi Khan?”
“I am saying that the man has repented, his sin is a secret and he is not proud of what he has done.”
Mullah Ameer’s voice hardened, “how can you be so sure?”
“Because he came to see me personally; he shed tears, he knows it was a mistake.”
“So you think this is good enough.”
“Do you think what he has done for us is good enough?”
Mullah Ameer shook with anger: “don’t speak to me like this Ghazi Khan. I know Azmat Khan’s generosity to the poor is without comparison, but why have you become so soft all of a sudden? Even Nabi Mohammad peace be upon him said if his own daughter were to steal then he would be the first to present her hands. The justice of Allah is swift… and it will be better for him to serve his punishment there…Why am I even telling you this? You know all of this yourself.” He stopped and regarded Ghazi Khan, who had stood and listened to him with a mournful look in his eye.
“Ghazi Khan, spit it out. What troubles you?”
Mullah Ameer noticed that tears shimmered and glistened in Ghazi’s eyes. And for the first time for many years, Ameer, who had seen Ghazi fight off a whole troop of occupying soldiers single-handedly, felt like his old friend was suddenly losing his resolution, like a withering flame.
“I had a dream and I saw a vision.”
Mullah Ameer laughed out briefly: “You saw a dream…And what did you see?” Incredulity was creeping into his voice.
Ghazi Khan spoke vividly: “I saw Nabi Mohammad, Allah bless him and grant him; I saw him as clearly as the full moon in the clear night sky. His beauty took my breath away. I have not stopped weeping ever since. And there was a look in his eye…It penetrated my core, so much, and that I saw something which makes me cry even more.”
Unimpressed, Ameer responded: “And what was that?”
“I saw my ignorance and I saw the hardness of my heart…” Suddenly Ghazi’s haunted expression transformed into an undeniable intensity:  “My brother, the sharia is the very reason that I breathe, but let me tell you clearly, you are wrong to pursue this case. For I have learned that mercy is the fountain from which our Prophet drinks. And you show no mercy by punishing Azmat Khan,” Ghazi stopped momentarily, noticing Ameer’s growing fury clouding over his face, but he was unperturbed: “and it does not stop with Azmat Khan…We have no right to wield the sword of justice unless we have been fully drenched in Mustafa’s bottomless ocean of mercy.”
Ameer could not hold himself back: “Ghazi Khan! Stop your blabbering like a two penny dervish and come back to reality!”
“No, Ameer Khan, you look at what is within you and look into the heart of the Prophet, then evaluate what we really are.”
Novid Shaid is an English teacher from the UK who shares short stories and poetry on his website: www.novid.co.uk. He has written a play called “The War, the Lift and the Separatists,” which explores the separatist mentality and he is also writing a novel based around three hidden saints and their trials and tribulations in modern-day Britain.

La Ilaha Illalah! – Poem based on Qasida Burda – Novid Shaid

La Ilaha Illalah!

By Novid Shaid, 2011

Sing it with sincere ardour!
Drink it in with cheer and fervour!
The authentic formula!
La ilaha illalah!

Hear it echo in your dreams!
Wear this credo with esteem!
It’s the manifesto supreme!
La ilaha illalah!

Through it strengthens certainty!
View it with sincerity!
Imbue it, oh humanity!
La ilaha illalah!

In the great glory of dawn
When dusk’s canopy is drawn
Read it happily, feel reborn!
La ilaha illalah!

Hidden in it lies relief,
Medicine for spiritual diseases,
It’s the divine remedy!
La ilaha illalah!

Light of Unity appear
In those ones who preservere
Reciting with strong candour!
La ilaha illalah!

Peace and blessings on the one,
Prayers upon the noble one,
Who brought us the Kalima!
La ilaha illalah!

www.novid.co.uk

Poem: Arise Dear Friend! – By Novid Shaid

Poem: Arise Dear Friend! – By Novid Shaid

Arise Dear Friend!

And contemplate the Real World

For I need your help as time is running out

If I have no companion here to help me,

My eyes will close

Then sleep will cast me out.

Arise dear heart! And see who truly lives

Behold the Real One illuminating everything

If we rise up together as true seekers

We can rouse ourselves when sleep comes lingering.

Stand up you subtle soul!

And observe the world’s true nature

Witness the universe, just a floating speck of dust

Bask in the Blessed Light, that gives it all a meaning

Wake from the nightmare of your self and of your lusts.

Rub your eyes, dear friend!

And stretch out your horizons,

And let’s link arms and sing for the One who only lives

As partners let us search for that special healer

Who will prescribe a pill which keeps us ever attentive.

Wake up my friend!

For life is rapidly passing,

And though we are engrossed, we are but sleepwalking in a dream

Rise up and be engulfed by the One and Only

Arise and realize that we exist through Him.

www.novid.co.uk

Don’t Wake Him Up – Short Story by Novid Shaid

Don’t Wake Him Up – Short Story by Novid Shaid

“Whatever you do …. Don’t wake him up!”
First he warned him, in a quiet and careful voice, but then, as they began descending the plummeting flight of stairs, which disappeared into the darkness below, the voice grew in desperation.
“Don’t wake him up…You’ll regret it, I tell you, you’ll regret it, we’ll all regret it. Please!” And now he began kicking his legs about. “Don’t wake him up!!!”
Lowwaam stopped his descent, becoming irritated by his little brother’s chicken legs, wriggling around his shoulders and neck.
“I told you Ammara, I will not change my mind. There’s no other way.”
Ammara arched over, staring Lowwaam in the face upside down, like a baby monkey perched on its mother’s shoulders. “There is another way…”
“No! We’ve been through this before,” Lowwaam took another step down.
“Yes, there is a way! Please stop!” Ammara’s little voice hissed, bitterly, echoing around the vast staircase. “We can go on as we have before. But if you wake him up…You know what he can do…There will be no stopping him. Do you understand!?” Desperation rang out from his voice.
“Lowwaam!” Ammara’s shrieking lament melted into the darkness that they descended into. Lowaam continued down the ancient steps, resolute and full of regret.
After what seemed an eternity of walking down and down, lower and lower into the hidden depths, they came to a halt, for before them stood a rusted, iron door. The tiny figure cowered, as he perched on his brother’s shoulders, holding on for dear life. His initial warning had now become a barely audible defeated whisper that he repeated: “Please, don’t wake him up.”
Lowwaam gazed mournfully on the now withered sign which he had hung around the great knocking rings next to the handles. The two engraved words were covered in dust: “Never Enter.” Disregarding his own warning, he pulled with all his might on the handle, while his brother held on tightly, and after some effort forced open the heavy door.
He looked on and regarded the crypt with dread. It had been so long since he had been here. In fact, the last time he had come, was to get rid of him once and for all, to hide him away, before he could be discovered; their brother. But the guilt was too much. He had to wake him up again.
Lowwaam stepped carefully into the crypt. The torches along the cold brick walls and alcoves still fired away, providing enough illumination for him to see. The crypt had remained exactly the way he had designed it: bare and simple, except for one solitary receptacle which lay alone, in the silence and the deep.
Ammara began sobbing when his eyes noticed the sarcophagus, shaped and sculptured with that familiar face. Their other brother. The one they tried to hide.
“Please, I beg you, don’t wake him up! You will not be able to stop him!”
Lowwaam was beginning to be affected by his brother’s despair, but became resolute, and placed his fingers in the holes on the side and began pushing off the cover with all his might.
Suddenly, a few pairs of malignant eyes appeared in the corners of the crypt, glowing fiercely, threatening, peering out, enraged.
“You see… Look around you. Can’t you see what will happen?”
Lowaam ignored the voice from above and carried on pushing.
“Brother! Please!”
With an almighty final push, the top cover thrust forward, toppling onto the dusty floor. Ammara turned away, shaking in a fit of terror.
Lowwaam looked down at the sleeping figure of his twin brother, who still lay there as they had left him.
“Wake up, dear Mulham..”
The figure rose up in an instant, Ammara froze, Lowwaam looked down, remorseful. The twin opened his eyes, and suddenly, a blinding light issued forth from his heart, filling the crypt and the world around him. After a wonderful moment of clarity, Mulham looked around and smiled. Ammara and Lowwaam were gone.
Only one brother left the room, Mulham, who made his way up the stairs, smiling and resplendent, whispering with a deep resonance:  O Lord, inspire me to do good and make me of the righteous.”
Notes:
This short story was inspired by a work of Sufism written by Shaykh Abdul Khaliq Al Shabrawi and translated by Dr Mostafa Al Badawi, May Allah reward them. The book is entitled: “The Degrees of the Soul”.
In the book, the first three levels of the human soul’s ascent and transformation from being dissolute to perfect are as follows: (there are seven levels altogether)
An Nafs Al Ammara: The Soul Inciting To Evil
An Nafs Al Lowwaama: The Reproachful Soul
An Nafs Al Mulhama: The Inspired Soul
Shaykh Shabrawi’s presentation of the rising levels of the human soul is based on Quranic terminology and themes.
For further reading try: “The Degrees Of The Soul” By Shaykh Abdul Khaliq Al Shabrawi, translated by Dr Mostafa Al Badawi.