Witnessing the divine through concrete moments. Each poem explores one of the 99 Names of Allah—not through theology, but through observed human experience. Navy Jordans waiting outside a prayer room. A friend's thumbs on a controller during forgiveness. The steady voice of prayer layered with wooden beads clicking.
This manuscript operates under one constraint: report what you saw, trust the reader to find meaning.
Traditional Islamic poetry explains divine attributes—mercy as concept, compassion as theology. The 99 Names reverses this. Each poem witnesses a specific moment where a divine attribute emerged through human action, refusing to announce significance.
Eliminate interpretive scaffolding. Cut "I realized mercy" or "I understood compassion." Show Bamba making wudu at 6:47pm, his navy Jordans unlaced outside the bathroom door. The reader discovers mercy.
Eliminate metaphor stacking. One vehicle maximum. Prefer literal witness. Not "remembrance flows like water like prayer"—just: water darkens the fabric at his wrists.
Eliminate sermonic endings. Never end on thesis statements. End on irreplaceable concrete image: the sound of him winning, a shoulder pressed against yours.
I include Arabic without italics, name masjids without glossaries, reference prayer times without footnotes. This isn't opacity—it's respect. Readers who know, know. Readers who don't still receive witnessed truth rather than anthropological exhibit.
Constraint trains vision. After enough poems under this restriction, the restriction becomes how you see. The goal isn't just a manuscript—it's transformation into a poet who only reports and trusts that's enough.
Bamba at the sink, Masjid Al-Noor basement,
green Polo sleeves pushed past his elbows.
Water darkens the fabric at his wrists.
His hands cup under the faucet, three times.
In the mirror: his face tilted toward Mecca,
eyes closed while water runs down his forearms.
6:47 on the clock above the paper towels.
He wipes wet hands over his fade, once.
Outside the door: his Jordans, navy blue,
unlaced and waiting against the wall.
Jarrett's thumbs on the controller, Storm versus Magneto,
eyes on the screen when he says:
"We're good, man."
Grey couch, afternoon sun through the blinds,
game announcer voice between us.
I'm holding my phone with both hands.
Two weeks since I forgot his birthday dinner.
He doesn't look at me until the round ends—
face calm as when we studied Econ 301.
Outside: Dallas traffic on Northwest Highway.
Inside: the sound of him winning.
Jalls next to me at Asr, Masjid Ibrahim,
locs gathered under his grey kufi.
His voice steady through Surah Al-Ikhlas—
I can hear the wooden beads in his left hand,
clicking between thumb and first finger.
The wall clock behind us, that electric hum
beneath his Arabic: Allahu Ahad. Allahu Samad.
Red carpet with gold calligraphy border.
His shoulder pressed against mine.
Completed: 3 of 99 poems (publication-ready)
Quality Standard: 9/10 minimum (Poetry Magazine tier)
Average Length: 60-80 words per poem
Projected Total: ~7,000 words
Current Phase: Actively submitting to top-tier journals
Cut language explaining what moments mean. Show the ritual; let readers discover mercy.
One metaphor maximum. Prefer literal witness over symbolic decoration.
End on irreplaceable concrete image, never moral lessons.
Each poem reduces 20-70% during editing. What survives is only what I actually witnessed—names, places, brands, colors, exact words spoken, specific sounds.
Building publication credits while completing manuscript.
The divine names exist in theology as abstractions: The Merciful, The Compassionate, The Pure. This manuscript insists they exist most truly in witnessed moments—Bamba's wet hands on his fade, Jarrett's calm face during forgiveness, Jalls' shoulder pressed against mine.
Not interpretation. Just witness.
99 poems. 99 names. 99 moments where the abstract became specific, the theological became observed, the divine became navy blue Jordans unlaced and waiting.