THE ROMANTICS 170Here in my heart is the Truth, here is a spark from Heaven,
Here in my heart is God. (p. 19)which is strongly reminiscent of utterances by al-Hallaj. In 'The Passion of a
Mystic' he writes:
How vast in the soul true Being extends.
How closely to the soul pure silence is linked.
Inside all that is in the universe the Lord moves.
This minute ant is an echo of Him
He lives in its belly and in His soil it lives
And when it gives up its soul God is there ready
To catch it in His hands.
It does not die, for in it God lives if only you could see Him. (p. 91)This Blake-like awareness of the sanctity of life also enabled Tijani to write
poems about nature and simple aspects of everyday village life, in which
there is a feeling of innocence and a freshness of vision and of a blessed
universe somewhat reminiscent of Blake's Songs of Innocence. Such is his
poem Tuti in the Morning', Tuti being a little island opposite Khartoum, a
charming description of the island coming back to life at daybreak. The poet
lovingly records many details such as processions of pikefish going solemnly
round it, birds waking from their sleep, fluttering in their nests, each nest
turning into a monastery where morning hymns are sung, an ox bellowing,
a sheep bleating, or an ass braying, 'bright drops of dew hanging like little
lanterns from branches', beasts roaming about and fields looking fertile and
green, water-wheels beginning to moan and girls fetching water in their jars,
flocks of geese with dark wings and boats sailing up and down the river.
The same spirit is shown in his poems on childhood, a period during
which Tijani, like many mystical poets before him, felt man was closer to
God. Here is a poem inspired by his recollections of his days in the Koran
school, not entirely free from gentle irony:
He sprang from his sleep; rubbing his eyes, he turned his face away from
the morning
Grumbling and cursing heaven and earth, and all their inhabitants, alike
people and ghosts
Joyless and powerless, irked by the loathsome thought of going.
Urged on by morning shadows as they spread in the open spaces of the
village and the valleys.
Fearful memories wandering in his imagination and once more was
aroused in him the familiar desire to play the truant.
But reluctantly he plodded on, dragging his feet and weeping in his
sad heart.
His garment reeking with the smell of his inkpot, a powerful scent in
which his head was drenched, (p. 57)