The Toronto Thread
This is my poem about Toronto, an anthem for the thread about our hometown.
Toronto: A Reminiscence in Iambic Pentameter
The CN tower stands, a Cadillac
Of silver, slim, the sky and noble shore.
Tent city on the waterfront, a chill
and brassy citizens look out from dome
and sky between tall glassy pants that to
the clouds ascend: two hundred ceilings block
the starlight. Pearson Airport? Swirling drive,
the terminal in question; suburbs! miss
your mark and scar the borough, Misses saw,
and York, and places Ryerson with You
of tea.
A city’s arteries, some streets are these:
Bloor-Yonge, a T and T and C to lines
of greenish body—dragon—yellow wings
and lances held by he of Sheppard hue.
The RT dragon head in blue, and finch
birds sit at wingtip. Straight, go Danforth straight
and pass the schools Saint George and slender she,
Spadina of the bookstore, chai, and fish.
And Kipling spies his rival Kennedy.
The breath of Ramadan upon our Lake
Ontario in months at end and start
of year. I had recited, let me note,
a full yaseen upon Parliament’s steps,
but that was Ottawa some years ago.
On Queen’s Park’s steps, then, I recited, too,
some verses, not sure what, but not yaseen.
I would have not forgotten that. I feel,
upon recalling this, my recitation—
some vast and lofty-calm?—metropolis.
I did all this alone. The city heard;
The downtown floods wit beards of prophetry
traditions; scarves, and domes of curves from heaven.
A shore, a line beyond which: paradise.
From there, that heavenly expanse come they,
O Muslim girl, we stand on guard for thee;
dome, dome the world, the ozone feminine,
no cancer skin in public; heaven bird.
The wealth of histories, one sits—hijab
commuters. Bus, and winter slush, street car,
she changes lanes; that wavy thankyou to
the other driver stops—my brother says—
it stops road rage? I wouldn’t know. You see
the CN Tower here and there, between
two buildings, in a distance, hid by cloud;
No overcast; she smiles: another curve.
Was it October when I saw one girl,
I glance, I say I glanced, a girl who had
sunglasses and hijab, black glasses!? I
beheld the town Toronto: streetcar glass.
Spring? No, it was October—must have been.
An afternoon Spadina car; a team
of white hijabis, U of T, Saint George…
York University, yes north, but still
Toronto. York! The reddish knight; and, now,
construction cranes and fences round the mud;
Aye, that’s where my tuition money went.
I have, in this town, read aloud Qur’an
on buses, benches in the park, at York—
indeed at York. I went from memory:
three suras calmed a bredth an empty hall,
except sporadic students passed. The snow
flakes fall so slowly from the sky: the air
now heavy, she is still in white hijab.
Upon black railing landing, gone now, York
recited me in evening shades a view
across the paths of school, my back against
cement wall.
Remember when reciting on a bench
between the pizza shop and payphone, and
the man, young man, with curly hair leaned in
through snapping, frigid cold? Eight fingers and
two cold thumbs held Qur’an. The stranger, he
was Muslim. I had been reciting. Ask.
I want to ask you something, said my boss,
I want to ask regarding Ramadan,
and so the quiet revolution: hearts
are turn by turn inclined; the sighting of
the moon, the moon of Ramadan, and time
a solar, lunar fairness—Muslims in
Australia, the fast moves through the year.
My boss beheld a fair and sweet reply,
an answer: then a satiation—Cool!
You know, I was supposed to write of love
here, but, excuse me, let it pass. And here
I was supposed to write of falling, yes,
of falling, falling into love: that sweet
perfecting loss. But let it pass, today.
Yep. Let it pass, today.
An Ocean in my pocket, laws perturbed
by love; New. Breathing. Who, not what,
within your heart: a universe expands
to insufficiency. Divine is Who,
Identity, Identity—not what.
An ocean in the desert, oceans wait
in lines, an ocean listens quietly
and speaks the name Divine. I want to speak
about my friend, and can’t. A secret love
October Ramadan.
We waited for our fish filets, my friend
and I, we waited, Having ordered them,
the fish filets, McDonald’s somewhere deep
a USA long drive, light bulbs, a few
minutes; the meals were coming; waiting, we,
stood by the counter, folded arms, and God,
His Name we thought, upon each breath. Our home
Toronto, distant drive. With folded arms
the noise and traffic round us went, but we,
we had a well of heaven in our chests.
Toronto: speak the name romantic, speak
transcendent zikr in the snow; decry
inquietude, abolish floor ads, please.
A dervish restaurant will whirl atop
the world; A Yaseen Tower every night
atop the city mine: Toronto of
the Malikis, Toronto, covered dome;
Toronto turns Ghazzali bright, it whirls,
a garden and a night.
So Landmarks: vapour. Sentiments all twist
emotions set, now dance in unison,
and whirling, strikes the lightning, rain in mine
Toronto, rain! and snow! and loud resound,
the CN Tower shakes, the buildings shake,
the downtown core: it shakes. And wanderers
are somewhere in the north, in Arctic north,
and read Qur’an alone in new snow seasons;
The world is covered: fresh Islam snow falls,
and they, in northern arctic lands do step
alone and sing the name of God and find
fresh, virgin snow upon which ‘Arabic
does flow out these chests, beating hearts: their Friend.
Eternal courtesy—an Arabic
expression—lights the north. A cold world makes
you patient. See Ontario is not
that sweeping, flying, overflowing, hot
state: California. Well, at least it’s not
like that in winter, much. We do still say
your welcome, thanks, and please to strangers. True,
in California, they are friendly. But,
they’re not as patient as the thick blood, cold
we, hands in pockets, winter jackets, coats
scarf, mittens, hardly speaking lest the warmth
of body heat be wasted.
Our nights are often longer! Memory.
Soon Yaseen Tower, whirling restaurant;
Glimpse purer air: a world a masjid, not
a fortress: sajda in Saskatchewan
fields. Purer water; television?—NO!
And water purer, Air soon purer, hearts
are turn by turn inclined.
And Canada must be a just society,
And scholarship goes on, through everything—
athletic scholar: Innis. Thank you, York.
The CN rail is wide: expansiveness
hugs all of Canada. But only here,
in our Toronto, Alif Tower soars.
ZS 2004 Toronto
|
The Toronto Crew
- nusrat.