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Posts Tagged ‘poem’
When compassion fills my heart
I am happy
when I am sad
I am together
when fallen apart
like earth
when I am silent
I have thunder
hidden inside
– Translation by Nader Khalili
“Rumi, Dancing the Flame”
Cal-Earth Press, 2001
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Read the rest of this entry »
Tags: mystic, poem, Poetry, Rumi, spiritual, sufi, Sufism
questions from a worker who reads
questions from a worker who reads
Bertolt Brecht
who built thebes of the seven gates?
in the books you will find the names of kings.
did the kinds haul up the lumps of rock?
and babylon, many times demolished
who raised it up so many times? in what houses
of gold-glittering lima did the builders live?
where, the evening that the wall of china was finished
did the masons go? great rome
is full of triumphal arches. who erected them? over whom
did the caesars triumph? had byzantium, much praised in song
only palaces for its inhabitants? even in fabled atlantis
the night the ocean engulfed it
the drowning still bawled for their slaves.
the young alexander conquered india.
was he alone?
caesar beat the gauls.
did he not have even a cook with him?
philips of spain wept when his armada
went down. was he the only one to weep?
frederick the second won the seven years’ war. who
else won it?
every page a victory.
who cooked the feast for the victors?
every ten years a great man.
who paid the bill?
so many reports.
so many questions.
(The illustration is a painting entitled ‘Man Reading’ by John Sargent) Read the rest of this entry »
Tags: Bertolt, Brecht, class, John Sargent, Man Reading, poem, Poetry, worker, working
My soul has come on my lips
Amir Khusrau’s Khabaram Raeeda translated by Annemarie Schimmel
Tonight there came a news that you, oh beloved, would come –
Be my head sacrificed to the road along which you will come riding!
All the gazelles of the desert have put their heads on their hands
In the hope that one day you will come to hunt them….
The attraction of love won’t leave you unmoved;
Should you not come to my funeral,
you’ll definitely come to my grave.
My soul has come on my lips (e.g. I am on the point of expiring);
Come so that I may remain alive -
After I am no longer – for what purpose will you come?
(trans. A. Schimmel)
sent by JZ via email
Tags: Amir, Delhi, India, Khusrau, mystic, poem, Poetry, spiritualism, sufi, Sufism, Sultanate
I am only the house of your beloved
Rumi again…
“I am only the house of your beloved,
not the beloved herself:
true love is for the treasure,
not for the coffer that contains it.”
The real beloved is that one who is unique,
who is your beginning and your end.
When you find that one,
you’ll no longer expect anything else:
that one is both the manifest and the mystery.
That one is the lord of the states of feeling,
dependent on none:
month and year are slaves to that moon.
When He bids the “state,”
it does His bidding;
when that one wills, bodies become spirit. Read the rest of this entry »
Tags: poem, Poetry, Rumi, sufi, Sufism
Ode to Benaras - Ghalib’s grand vision
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A Brahmin resident of Benaras |
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Ghalib |
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Benaras: “forever spring” |
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It is incredible that a Muslim poet who prided himself on his Turkic ancestry and invoked the “warrior” past in his day-to-day conversation (through his letters) could compare the divine light at Mount Sinai to the lamps at Benaras |
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he cancer of communalism and bigotry in South Asia continues to haunt us. These days, the Muslims are once again a subject of intense, though not always fair, scrutiny in India: their loyalties are being questioned and many are potential terrorists if not already abettors of violence. The post 9/11 world has contributed to the demonising of the Muslim identity and history to surreal heights.
The recent bomb blasts in Delhi have placed the communal discourse on the front pages. The invaders and violent Muslims have done it again. A friend called me from Delhi and narrated the profiling that takes place at marketplaces and how the gulf between different communities is widening.
There was a time, not in the ancient past, when in Delhi the greatest of Urdu poets Mirza Ghalib (1796-1869) lived in an age when Hindus and Muslims shared common saints, dargahs and even popular gods and goddesses. Written accounts of this age – the mid to late 19th century – relate how intimate co-exitence of “Mussalmans” and “Hindoos” had led to a relative amalgamation of customs among the common people. And poets like Ghalib could see the commonalities of spiritual streams:
I n the Kaaba I will play the shankh (conch shell)
In the temple I have draped the ahraam (Muslim robe)
The verse above delineates the Sufi concept of fana (or dissolution of the self in divine reality) and the unity articulated by the ancient Indian texts such as the Vedanta. Sufis were to elaborate this as the wahdat-al-wajood (Unity of Being) philosophy.
Tags: Benaras, Calcutta, Delhi, Ghalib, Hindus, Islam, mathnavi, Muslims, Pavan, Persian, poem, Poetry, tolerance, Varma, wahdatalwajood
Thou art the sky and the deep sea (Rumi)
When you fall asleep,
you go from the presence of yourself
into your own true presence.
You hear something
and surmise that someone else in your dream
has secretly informed you.
You are not a single “you.”
No, you are the sky and the deep sea.
Your mighty “Thou,” which is nine hundredfold,
is the ocean, the drowning place
of a hundred “thou’s” within you.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~ Read the rest of this entry »
Tags: mystic, mystical, poem, Poetry, Rumi, sufi, Sufism
Should old acquaintance be forgot,
Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind?
Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and auld lang syne?
And there’s a hand my trusty friend!
And give us a hand o’ thine !
And we’ll take a right good-will draught,
for auld lang syne
Tags: auld lang syne, poem, Robert Burns, Scottish
Would you permit me?
Nizar Qabbani
In a country where thinkers are assassinated, and writers are considered
infidels and books are burnt,
in societies that refuse the other, and
force silence on mouths and thoughts forbidden,
and to question is a sin,
I must beg your pardon, would you permit me?
Would you permit me to bring up my children as I want, and not to
dictate on me your whims and orders?
Would you permit me to teach my children that the religion is first to
God, and not for religious leaders or scholars or people?
Would you permit me to teach my little one that religion is about good
manners, good behaviour, good conduct, honesty and truthfulness,
before I teach her with which foot to enter the bathroom or with which hand she
should eat? Read the rest of this entry »
Tags: Arabic, Damascus, Islam, Musims, Nizar Qabbani, poem, Poetry, Syria
Know the true definition of yourself
Rumi on knowing ourselves
Suppose you know the definitions of all substances
and their derivatives,
what good is this to you?
Know the true definition of yourself.
That is indispensable.
Then, when you know your own definition, flee from it,
that you may attain to the One who cannot be defined,
O sifter of the dust.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Read the rest of this entry »
Tags: mystic, poem, Poetry, Rumi, sufi, Sufi poetry, Sufism
Adieu Mahmoud Darwaish
Courtesy AHRC
I come from there
I come from there and I have memories
Born as mortals are, I have a mother
And a house with many windows,
I have brothers, friends,
And a prison cell with a cold window.
Mine is the wave, snatched by sea-gulls,
I have my own view,
And an extra blade of grass.
Mine is the moon at the far edge of the words,
And the bounty of birds,
And the immortal olive tree.
I walked this land before the swords
Turned its living body into a laden table.
I come from there. I render the sky unto her mother
When the sky weeps for her mother.
And I weep to make myself known
To a returning cloud.
I learnt all the words worthy of the court of blood
So that I could break the rule.
I learnt all the words and broke them up
To make a single word: Homeland…..
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Identity Card
Record!
I am an Arab
And my identity card is number fifty thousand
I have eight children
And the nineth is coming after a summer
Will you be angry? Read the rest of this entry »
Tags: Arab, Mahmoud Darwaish, Palestine, poem, Poetry
Let us fall in love again
Rumi’s lilting chant..
Let us fall in love again
and scatter gold dust all over the world.
Let us become a new spring
and feel the breeze drift in the heavens’ scent.
Let us dress the earth in green,
and like the sap of a young tree
let the grace from within sustain us.
Let us carve gems out of our stony hearts
and let them light our path to Love.
The glance of Love is crystal clear
and we are blessed by its light. Read the rest of this entry »
Tags: poem, Poetry, Rumi, sufi, Sufism
Rites of Sense - a poem
Meena Alexander’s poem Rites of Sense’ concerns the fundamental question of freedom . The poem was published in Meena Alexander’s book, Illiterate Heart (TriQuarterly Books/ Northwestern University Press, 2002)
Rites of Sense
In twilight as she lies on a mat
I rub my mother’s feet with jasmine oil
touch callouses under skin,
joints upholding that fraught original thing–
bone, gristle skin, all that makes her mine.
All day she swabbed urine from the floor,
father’s legs so weak he clung to the rosewood bed.
She rinsed soiled cloths, hung them out to dry
on a coir rope by a vine, its passion fruit
clumsy with age, dangling.
Tags: Meena Alexander, poem, Poetry, Ries of Sense
A World with No Boundaries
With every breath the sound
of love surrounds us,
and we are bound for the depths
of space, without distraction.
We’ve been in orbit before
and know the angels there.
Let’s go there again, Master,
for that is our land. Read the rest of this entry »
Tags: ghazal, Love, poem, Poetry, Rumi, sufi
that overgrown suitcase of memories
This poem (or an excuse of a poem) was written in a flash for a friend who asked for advice whether to meet an old flame or not.
If you have to go to the North, my love
Why not take the first train
To gaze at the autumn sky
Feel the chilly air in your bones
Clear all the dust
A painting has gathered in years.
Stroke the love that is not lost
Even if for the few moments
when you look at the sky
When all the dust has been cleared
Alas, that will be the time to come back
It will be sad, as it was before
But the quivering moments stolen from life
will come back with thee
And, life shall not be all that empty
you will smile at the little treasure in
that wobbling and quavering,
overgrown suitcase of memories
Tags: memories, poem, Poetry, suitcase
Gulzar’s Mera Kuchh Samaan…
This poem composed by Gulzar was beautifully rendered by Asha Bhosle in the unforgettable film Ijazat. Someone forwarded me the text and I suddenly remembered all those evenings, when this song was played and re-played amid friends, beloveds and memories. All the little objects of my room at home (that has changed so many times now), at college, and wherever this song was played suddenly came to life.. Good grief, I am being sentimental. I need to go back to work!
I am not posting the Urdu text - I don’t have a translation; however, I am uploading a video here with my favourite Rekha and the formidable Naseeruddin Shah - those who cannot read Urdu might like to listen to the lilting melody..
Tags: bollywood, film, Gulzar, Ijazat, Naseeruddin Shah, poem, potry, Rekha, Urdu
Tabish Khair on Cartoon Wars
I am growing fond of Tabish Khair’s poetry. Just read this remarkable poem:
Cartoon Wars
Let’s spell out this world.
Generally speaking, we are civilised.
Evil is something others do, mostly.
Not that we are perfect. No, that’s not what I mean.
Occasionally we make mistakes.
Criticism of it should bear that in mind.
It happens: a bomb gone bad, some brutal soldiers.
Doesn’t mean our intentions were not good.
Evil is something others do, mostly.
Germans, or at least Nazis, and communists, Muslims:
Evil is something they do, mostly.
Now the difference between us and them is this:
On every occasion we were willing to meet them, but they
Could not imagine a world with us, with people like us
In it. No, they can’t. That’s the problem. They
Don’t mean what they say, say what they mean. Damn.
Evil is something they do, always.
Tags: cartoon wars, evil, poem, Poetry, Tabish Khair
Rumi’s Quatrain - Our drunkenness does not come from wine
Rumi’s Quatrain -
Our drunkenness does not come from wine.
The joy of our gathering
does not come from the harp or rubaab.
With no celestial beauty to fill our cup,
Without friends, without singing, without wine,
We burst out like madmen,
rolling drunk on the floor.
– Version by Jonathan Star and Shahram Shiva
A Garden Beyond Paradise
Bantam Books, 1992
Two more versions of this Quatrain
Read the rest of this entry »