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My name is Padre Go Toma. And the days of the week in Irish for Wednesday, Thursday and Friday are cedin der din and een and een there that you hear at the end of cadin der din and ina. It's the word for fasting. So K Din for Wednesday means first fast, der din for Thursday means second fast, and inna for Friday just means fast. Because in a kind of a religiously infused naming of the days of the week, there were three fast days in the week. So many of the world's traditions infused by religion have fasting as part of the week or part of a month, or part of the yearly or seasonal cycle. And it's an intriguing thing to think about how it is all across millennia and centuries, people have employed fasting for all kinds of purposes, to focus the mind, to focus the heart, to turn some kind of marking of solidarity, and to attune oneself to a deeper hunger. Ramadan's Greeting by Sana Asan we pluck the new moon out of Mecca's sky A lottery ball Make a guessing of God's plan. First fast will be Thursday, just me nah fam Friday you'll see it comes when it comes the day tall and endless. We empty our stomachs, our senses restless, sexless, whizzing ablutions. Can we wash ourselves of ourselves? Want to no longer want what we don't get? Wait, witness the greed, growl, grumble, gratitude and the vacant gut. We greet the God that is more God than the God we greet the wanting never wanes edacious desire for the sun to sleep Mosques sealed so we meet in open mouths at the date's wrinkled skin bursting under bite. Sweetness floods into us like the quiet dark of dusk. Shadowless, hungry, eater of light. This beautiful poem of San Asan's Ramadan's Greeting is a celebration of we. We pluck the new moon and then a conversation, maybe a text message, or reminiscences of what people say to each other when they're discussing what's the first night of Ramadan? Trust me, Naafam to family. When you're thinking Thursday or Friday, we empty our stomachs or can we wash ourselves of ourselves? There's so many instances where the plural is evoked a celebration of community in this poem, the immediate people you're speaking to or texting or talking to or making plans with, as well as people that you're sharing hunger with in your city or mosque or globally as well. The mention of the moon in the poem's opening line is really important. We Pluck the new moon. And I think what this shows is that by the way, that Muslims mark Ramadan by the new moon, that what it is in the poem's intuition is that it's a turning away from what's right here and right now around us and turning towards. Of lifting the gaze up of seeing the light from the sun on the new moon and observing that from earth. And that, I think, is what the impulse of the poem is, is to choose, to turn away from and to turn to. And the poem is clear about what you're turning towards family and turning towards a chosen hunger that is done with decision and with purpose and with solidarity and with almsgiving and turning towards what it is that hunger can indicate in us about the hungers that can be underneath our hunger, the want underneath the want, and what it means to fast from certain things in order to focus the mind, to focus the heart, to focus the body, to focus the self in community, and then to break that with a marking of the. The taste of a date at the end, together with people and to be united in the desire and the recognition of want and the desire and the recognition of not being controlled by wants that may not always serve. Sana Asan is a poet based in London in Britain and is also a psychologist and. And their interest in psychology, and particularly a psychology of desire and sensuality, is so evident in this poem. And it really is what made me want to look at it. The opening speaks of the random nature of making a guessing of God's plan. So the poem acknowledges chance and chaos and order and the known universe. And then the poem moves into trust about family and the exchanges between them. It comes when it comes. And then a long meditation on the physicality of fasting and the reflections on the deeper psychology of fasting. And then these rich questions. Can we wash ourselves of ourselves, Want to no longer want what we don't get? Then it goes back to the body again. Wait, witness the greed, growl and grumble and gratitude. All of this, I think, links the experience of feeling hunger with the profound question of what is it that will satisfy me? Am I saying that I want something when actually if that want were to be satisfied, I would be unsatisfied because I don't have want anymore. So many of us know that this poem uses so many W words. We will, when we whizzing, wash, want, wait, witness and all of those. This is my own reading of it in a certain sense, point towards the question of want at the heart of this poem. The question of satisfaction underneath that and the question of applying physical pressure on the self in a chosen, safe, communal, public way to reflect on what is it that my want is doing in me. The poem is filled with forward slashes, and this makes me read the poem really slowly. And it's a poem in couplets as well. Nine couplets. Nine. Two line stanzas. And therefore the poem is filled with a lot of emptiness and a lot of pause, which I think invites me when I read it, to also take deliberate pauses, which is, I suppose in a certain sense like a micro experience of trying to do what it is that the deep psychology and spirituality of Ramadan invites, which is to reflect through a chosen pause on what it is that might be happening in the pose. In the midst of the the church choice of restraint in this poem. Sexless whizzing ablutions. Can we wash ourselves of ourselves? This poem is very rich in its understanding of body and mentioning of it. Stomachs, gut desire, sleep, open mouths, skin bite, sweetness floods into us. There's a sensuality in the midst of the stepping away from sensuality and the stepping away from the senses in it. Sometimes when I read a poem, this doesn't always work, but occasionally it does. I read the very final word of each line going down the right hand side of the poem, and in this one I feel like it acts in a certain sense like a guideline that takes us through Sana Asan's poem. Because Ramadan's greeting, the final word of each of the 18 lines of this poem are the following. Sky gods, me comes empty, sexless, ourselves want witness, gratitude is wanting to meet wrinkled floods, dusk, light. I feel like we get something so generous in the way that this poem's final words on the right hand side of it will summarize or give us something of the dream of the poem, perhaps, or the lingering memory of the poem before each line break. I feel like to think about fasting and the choice of hunger. It's an important thing to note that this is a choice to follow the beautiful Muslim tradition of Ramadan. Coming from Ireland, where others call what happened in the mid-1800s in Ireland the potato famine, we don't call it that. We call it Angartha Moor, the great hunger or the great starvation. And Sana Hasan's poem marks choice, a joyful choice in community together with accountability and safety to practice Ramadan. And I think of those in Gaza or those in many other parts of the world who are going to be faced with terrible choices this upcoming Ramadan amidst the imposition of starvation, and I don't think this poem is addressing that. But it's important to say, I think that the poem is deliberately not doing that, that the idea of hunger in this way is entirely different from the idea of imposed starvation. The phrase edacious desire in the poem is talking about the insatiable or unsatisfiable appetite that sometimes we can have. The wanting never wanes, audacious desire for the Son to sleep and the fuel that we experience as a physical body when we eat, and the we that happens in shared community. All of those buildings of that are about the idea of the choice, the safe, the flourishing, the fruitful experience of temporary hunger in order to satisfy something else. I love all the references to night in the poem, after the end of a day tall and endless, or the sun to sleep, or the quiet dark of dusk, and then towards the end, shadowless, hungry eater of light. San Asan's poem points to how, when you're free enough to choose it and it hasn't been imposed on you, a fast like this is a turning toward the deepest things that will sustain us by attention towards them evade us too, and call us to a continual sense of practice and attention and turning away from and turning towards. Foreign. Ramadan's Greeting by Sana Asan we pluck the new moon out of Mecca's sky, A lottery ball make a guessing of God's plan. First fast will be Thursday, trust me Naafam Friday you'll see it comes when it comes the day tall and endless we empty our stomachs, our senses restless, sexless, whizzing ablutions. Can we wash ourselves of ourselves, Want to no longer want what we don't get. Wait, witness the greed, growl, grumble, gratitude in the vacant gut we greet the God that is more God than the God we greet the wanting never wanes edacious desire for the sun to sleep. Mosques sealed so we meet in open mouths at the date's wrinkled skin bursting under bite Sweetness floods into us like the quiet dark of dusk. Shadowless, hungry eater of light.