SJ Fowler (1983) has had poetry published in over 70 journals & magazines, and is the author of two collections, Fights (Veer books 2011) and Red Museum (Knives Forks & Spoons press 2011). He is a member of the Writers forum poetry group, and an employee of the British Museum. He edits the Maintenant interview series for 3am magazine introducing contemporary European poets.  www.sjfowlerpoetry.com  www.maintenant.co.uk.

How to join the Hashishiyya in five easypieces (January 20, 2011. Issue 24.)

   Sacrifice a cock,
   rub the blood on the plate,
   smear it with incense and cover that melange with a silken cloth
   tied with wooden threads.
   This must take place when the constellation Leo
   is rising above the horizon on a night
   when the moon is obscured by clouds.
   The most propitious day is Saturday.
   Soon wisdom and its connected treasures will be revealed.

How the treasure becomes manifest is not said.
Generally they are led to the box
and the words they imagine to be for their ears alone.
The coarseness of our distant neighbours,
to still allow themselves to be kept by superstition.
Druzes & Nusayris consult the box for the Hidden Imam.
He is not inside the Mawsuli divination instrument,
pilgramised by society ladies.
‘Will I succeed in business? Is he a suitable mate?’
They patter into this intricate geometric box,
adorned with ravens and doves, at a truce.
It is beautiful yes, a fine thing,
but they are one question, one answer,
one insolvable riddle! know, says, Hasan-i-sabbah
I watch it speak over many hours.
It says but one thing to all
           I am the silent speaker…     rock
the judicious one hides his secret thoughts
but I disclose them as if hearts were created as my parts.
Geomantric egypy sand science, dirt eating poverty of sense!
They trust eight hundred years over the knotty throne verse.
Over their hard earned chalcedony amulet engravings.
They are made of carnelian, that is fossilised scorpion!
But no, listen close for the whirring of a glint box.
Men get the ends they deserve, aside from me.
And my grandfather. Trust the mirror, the seven signs.
      

To think of it, the idea that they still might use divination.
I wish it were so, the way would be well lit.