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Praise

Remember, O, the day when he was seen
advancing with his army that had been
so awesome it kept rival swords pristine,
unused? Remember how he came to clean
God’s House of all the idols? Helmet’s sheen
recall when, as he rode, he bowed. So glean
from his approach the etiquettes that mean,
“we fail to praise God as God should be praised.”

His name is “Ahmad” in the sky’s regime,
“Muhammad” to the mortals here. Prayers teem
with blessings round his name. He lived the dream
of love. Each far-flung kingdom has a stream
by which the poet sings: “each era’s gleam—
each lover’s blush—is from this man’s esteem.”
God drew him near in pureness so extreme
that all the veils of time and space were razed.

So near, he witnessed God by heart and gazed.
The Prophet Musa afterwards appraised
our Prophet’s charge who, shy, went back and raised
the point with God. As prayers were reappraised
repeatedly so God then kindly phased
our prayers to forty, thirty, twenty, ten—
at five our Prophet shied from asking when
God, multiplying worth by ten, amazed.

“We fail to praise God as God should be praised,”
our Prophet said that night he went past moon
and stars, and passed all prophets, too. As soon
as it began, this lovely, timeless swoon,
did it conclude. And life resumed, with noon
siestas, weddings, battles, and that boon
of bowing from the bows’ lengths. Praised is he
who said we fail to praise God properly.


Zeshan Syed 2007 Toronto