Lament for five sons lost in a plague Run down by fate’s spiteArabic poems
Waves Waves bow before the shore
courtiers to their king
and then withdraw.
—Unknown
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Lament for five sons lost in a plague Run down by fate’s spite My body hangs, a mantle on a broom;
with wealth enough to ease all pain I turn at night from back to belly side after side after side. Who put pebbles on my couch when my sons died?
I tried but could not shield them well enough from fate whose talon-grip turns amulet to toy.
Thorns tear out my eyes. I lie, a flagstone at the feet of Time all men wear me down but even those my pain delights envy that I cannot cringe at fortune’s spite.
—Abu Dhu’Ayb Al-Hudhali
Persian poems
Young or old we die Young or old we die for every neck a noose though the rope be long for some,
struggle or calm broke or a king life’s but wind and a dream perhaps describing some other thing;
and with the end all will be the same again and all will be well.
On the tavern In the tavern are many wines ... Being human means entering this place where entrancing varieties of desire are served. The grapeskin of
On the tavern In the tavern are many wines ... Being human means entering this place where entrancing varieties of desire are served. The grapeskin of ego breaks and a pouring begins. ... But after some time in the tavern, a point comes, a memory of elsewhere, a longing for the source, and the drunks must set off from the tavern and begin the return. The Qur'an says, "We are all returning." The tavern is a kind of glorious hell that human beings enjoy and suffer and then push off from in their search for truth. The tavern is a dangerous region where sometimes disguises are necessary, but never bide your heart, Rumi urges. Keep open there. A breaking apart, a crying out into the street, begins in the tavern, and the human soul turns to find its way home.
Longing is the absent chatting with the absent. The distant turning toward the distant. Longing is the spring’s thirst for the jar-carrying women, and
Longing is the absent chatting with the absent. The distant turning toward the distant. Longing is the spring’s thirst for the jar-carrying women, and vice versa. Longing allows distance to recede, as if looking forward, although it may be called hope, were an adventure and a poetic notion. The present tense is hesitant and perplexed, the past tense hangs from a cypress tree standing on its rooted leg behind a hill, enveloped in its dark green, listening intently to one sound only: the sound of the wind. Longing is the sound of the wind.
What is most vital is that Fitzgerald completely misconstrued the meaning of the Persian mystic. He regarded Khayaam’s poem as a statement of hedonism
What is most vital is that Fitzgerald completely misconstrued the meaning of the Persian mystic. He regarded Khayaam’s poem as a statement of hedonism and atheism… Graves discloses, on the contrary, that the poem expresses profound religious faith. Perhaps Fitzgerald lacked sufficient knowledge of Persian. Perhaps the symbolism of the Rubaiyyat simply eluded him.
Excerpt from the "original" Rubaiyyat which isn't original at all and perhaps that is the only truth it contains, who knows. Apparently, Edward FitzGerald took many liberties and his translation - the first one of this poem - resulted in a very different book. Bad news for me as FitzGerald’s work sounds more appealing, albeit completely unreal. In any case, since Robert Graves' book would be a waste of time, I have two versions to read: FitzGerald and Peter Avery's, maybe the real poem? (Eugene Onegin flashbacks.)
March 31, 19
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I've read this without being able to stop thinking: this is not what Khayyám wrote. A shame.
LII And that inverted Bowl we call The Sky, Whereunder crawling coop't we live and die, Lift not thy hands to It for help - for It Rolls impotently on as Thou or I.
... You won’t find the impossible, as it was the day I found you, the day my passion birthed you, waiting for you, as for me, I’ll know how to bring you ... You won’t find the impossible, as it was the day I found you, the day my passion birthed you, waiting for you, as for me, I’ll know how to bring you back. And go with the river from one fate to another, the wind is ready to uproot you from my moon, and the last words on my trees are ready to fall on Trocadero square. And look behind you to find the dream, go to any east or west that exiles you more, and keeps me one step farther from my bed and from one of my sad skies. The end is beginning’s sister, go and you’ll find what you left here, waiting for you.
From "I Waited for No One", translated by Fady Joudah.
'O Utu, let me speak a word to you, give ear to what I say! Let me tell you something, may you give thought to it! In my city a man dies, and the heart
'O Utu, let me speak a word to you, give ear to what I say! Let me tell you something, may you give thought to it! In my city a man dies, and the heart is stricken, a man perishes, and the heart feels pain. I raised my head on the rampart, my gaze fell on a corpse drifting down the river, afloat on the water: I too shall become like that, just so shall I be! "No man can stretch to the sky, no matter how tall, no man can compass a mountain, no matter how broad!" Since no man can escape life's end, I will enter the mountain and set up my name. Where names are set up, I will set up my name, where names are not yet set up, I will set up gods' names.'
Excerpt of one of the five Sumerian poems that inspired the story that we now know as the Epic of Gilgamesh, the world's most ancient great work of literature, compiled by Sîn-lēqi-unninni at some point between 1300 and 1000 BCE. Tyrants, explicit sexual content, friendship/bromance, fight scenes, gods, the fear of death and moments of involuntary irony that made my day. From 2100 BCE to your house full of screens and talking refrigerators.
“Good morrow to thee, brother prisoner.” — Kahlil Gibran, "The Two Cages"
Another stop during this more diverse literary journey I decided to embark on
“Good morrow to thee, brother prisoner.” — Kahlil Gibran, "The Two Cages"
Another stop during this more diverse literary journey I decided to embark on this year. I chose the highly acclaimed prose of Kahlil Gibran, a man to whose land I'm connected through blood - half Lebanese, half Italian; nothing to do with my innocuous obsession with Russian and Japanese literature, but well, who can control those things anyway?
Before I immerse myself in the depths of the universe Gibran created in The Prophet, I decided to get acquainted with his writing and views by reading another book not as widely known. I chose The Madman because I found it somewhat amusing that it wasn't the first time I read a madman's words:
I won't expand on the cliché of a madman's words being more truthful and reasonable than the speech of any other human being considered sane by ordinary standards. I will just say that this collection includes a variety of profound and intriguing parables that constitute a faithful portrait of humanity. The following is one of my favorites.
The Seven Selves In the stillest hour of the night, as I lay half asleep, my seven selves sat together and thus conversed in whisper:
First Self: Here, in this madman, I have dwelt all these years, with naught to do but renew his pain by day and recreate his sorrow by night. I can bear my fate no longer, and now I rebel.
Second Self: Yours is a better lot than mine, brother, for it is given to me to be this madman’s joyous self. I laugh his laughter and sing his happy hours, and with thrice winged feet I dance his brighter thoughts. It is I that would rebel against my weary existence.
Third Self: And what of me, the love-ridden self, the flaming brand of wild passion and fantastic desires? It is I the love-sick self who would rebel against this madman.
Fourth Self: I, amongst you all, am the most miserable, for naught was given me but odious hatred and destructive loathing. It is I, the tempest-like self, the one born in the black caves of Hell, who would protest against serving this madman.
Fifth Self: Nay, it is I, the thinking self, the fanciful self, the self of hunger and thirst, the one doomed to wander without rest in search of unknown things and things not yet created; it is I, not you, who would rebel.
Sixth Self: And I, the working self, the pitiful labourer, who, with patient hands, and longing eyes, fashion the days into images and give the formless elements new and eternal forms—it is I, the solitary one, who would rebel against this restless madman.
Seventh Self: How strange that you all would rebel against this man, because each and every one of you has a preordained fate to fulfil. Ah! could I but be like one of you, a self with a determined lot! But I have none, I am the do-nothing self, the one who sits in the dumb, empty nowhere and nowhen, while you are busy re-creating life. Is it you or I, neighbours, who should rebel?
When the seventh self thus spake the other six selves looked with pity upon him but said nothing more; and as the night grew deeper one after the other went to sleep enfolded with a new and happy submission.
But the seventh self remained watching and gazing at nothingness, which is behind all things.
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