I recently received several emails from an acquaintance of mine. The content was heavy with generic, fundamental islamic moral, baked into several school-level poems. I was a bit upset by all the heavy-handed fingerpointing, but the good thing is that it gave me a creative spark.
It doesn't rime, and is probably longer than it could have been, but sometimes you have to accept that your first draft will be your best draft, so here it is:
The Trade
I own a compass,
though I'll glady confess
it's more a gyroscope
and not really a compass at all
It turns north, rotates south
It skips and jumps; what good
Is such a useless device
If you can't trust it to give you straight answers?
I wish someone could pin it down,
tie the needle into a knot -
or if all else fails, hammer
it down so it cannot budge
I wish it would tell me the
same thing on Wednesday
as it would on Monday
regardless of what happened on Tuesday
I wish it would tell me the truth
never waiver in its certainty
Even if it is not entirely sure,
I would feel more cerain if it was.
I wish my father always had an answer.
Instead he always had a reply,
which often was, "You need
to look for your answer".
(Damn, I really hated him for saying that)
Give me a brochure with all the correct answers
I'll trade you my broken compass
Because mine can't even make up its own mind
Can't even make up my mind.
Yours can tell me what I want to hear
Yours can promise me that something is certain
Yours can tell me everything
I never knew I wanted to know
or ever needed to know I wanted
What do you mean, trade them?
You mean, that if I want to know everything
Never have to reason, to doubt, or fear,
or stay up all night with a head
full of questions I can't make heads or tails of,
All I have to do is trade my compass
away, and exchange it for your book?
An easy decision, I
should think.
You'll really like it; did you know
it was a gift from my parents? Granted,
they never taught me how to use it,
or what good it could be
But just so you know,
It holds some sentimental value
to me; of course, though it would
hold more if it worked, right?
A few times, it tried warning me
of dangers, but not as often as I'd have liked;
And very seldom, when I held it
upside down
held my breath
before a mirror
looked from the corner of my eye
I caught a fleeting glimpse
of something rare,
glorious,
wonderful!
Still, I prefer something solid,
something I can look up. I mean,
wouldn't you trade away
all the uncertainy
all the confusion
all the clockwork
for truth inscribed in stone?
Hold on.
I'll tell you what;
maybe I'll hold on to it,
juste a little bit longer,
until I'm sure, dead sure,
that I can't make it work.
There's a certain appeal to it,
a je-ne-sais-quoi, that I'd like
to tinker a bit more with.
I think I'll settle for my uncertainty,
my confusion, my useless clockwork
and leave you to your book.
Maybe I'll change my mind;
maybe I'll return and ask to browse your book;
but don't count on me
trading my compass away.
