Every instant thou art dying and returning. "This world is but a
moment," said the Prophet.
Our thought is an arrow shot by Him: how should it stay in the air?
It flies back to God.
Every instant the world is being renewed, and we unaware of its
perpetual change.
Life is ever pouring in afresh, though in the body it has the
semblance of continuity.
From its swiftness it appears continuous, like the spark thou whirlest
with thy hand.
Time and duration are phenomena produced by the rapidity of Divine
Action,
As a firebrand dexterously whirled presents the appearance of a long
line of fire.
("The World of Time", translated by R.A. Nicholson, Rumi, printed 2006)
Tag: Poems (Page 6 of 9)
Privation and defect, wherever seen,
Are mirrors of the beauty of all that is.
The bone-setter, where should he try his skill
But on the broken limb? The tailor where?
Not, surely, on the well-cut finished coat.
Were no base copper in the crucible,
How could the alchemist his craft display?
("The Necessary Foil" translated by R.A. Nicholson, Rumi, printed 2006)
Here is a fun word to say. I have heard it many times before, but now that I am starting to write more, especially since I want to branch into poetry, I looked the word up so I could be sure I knew exactly what it meant. And how to pronounce it. Mary Oliver writes about diphthongs in A Poetry Handbook.
Diphthong – (pronounced dif-thong) an unsegmentable, gliding speech sound varying continuously in phonetic quality but considered to be a single sound or phoneme, as the oi sound of toy or boil.
Usage: “The initial four lines are rife with w‘s and th‘s; f is there, and v. Three sets of double ll‘s. The heaviness of the vowels is increased by the use of diphthongs. The two words that end with a mute (think and up) are set within the lines and thus are softened. All other mutes are softened within the words themselves. One could scarcely read these lines in any other than a quiet, musing, almost whispered way.”
Mary Oliver is speaking of the first stanza of Robert Frost’s poem “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”:
Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow.
Solomon was busy judging others,
when it was his personal thoughts
that were disrupting the community.
His crown slid crooked on his head.
He put it straight, but the crown went
awry again. Eight times this happened.
Finally he began to talk to his headpiece.
'Why do you keep tilting over my eyes?'
'I have to. When your power loses compassion,
I have to show what such a condition looks like.'
Immediately Solomon recognized the truth.
He knelt and asked forgiveness.
The crown centered itself on his crown.
When something goes wrong, cause yourself first.
Even the wisdom of Plato or Solomon
can wobble and go blind.
Listen when your crown reminds you
of what makes you cold toward others,
as you pamper the greedy energy inside.
("Solomon's Crooked Crown" translated by Coleman Barks, Rumi, printed 2006)
The Lion took the Hare with him: they ran
together to the well and looked in.
The Lion saw his own image: from the water appeared
the form of a lion with a plump hare beside him.
No sooner did he espy his enemy than he left the Hare
and sprang into the well.
He fell into the pit which he had dug: his iniquity
recoiled on his own head.
O Reader, how many an evil that you see in others is
but your own nature reflected in them!
In them appears all that you are - your hypocrisy,
iniquity, and insolence.
You do not see clearly the evil in yourself; else you
would hate yourself with all your soul.
Like the Lion who sprang at his image in the water,
you are only hurting yourself, O foolish man.
When you reach the bottom of the well of your own nature,
then you will know that the wickedness is in you.
("The Evil in Ourselves" translated by R. A. Nicholson, Rumi, printed 2006)
A grammarian once embarked in a boat. Turning to the boatman with a self-satisfied air he asked him:
'Have you ever studied grammar?'
'No,' replied the boatman.
'Then half your life has gone to waste,' the
grammarian said.
The boatman thereupon felt very depressed, but he answered him nothing for the moment. Presently the wind tossed the boat into a whirlpool. The boatman shouted to the grammarian:
'Do you know how to swim?'
'No,' the grammarian replied, 'my well-spoken, handsome fellow.'
'In that case, grammarian,' the boatman remarked, 'the whole of your life has gone to waste, for the boat is sinking in these whirlpools.'
You may be the greatest scholar in the world in you time, but consider, my friend, how the world passes away - and time!
("The Grammarian and the Boatman" translated by A. J. Arberry, Rumi, printed 2006)
'Tis light makes colour visible: at night
Red, green, and russet vanish from thy sight.
So to thee light by darkness is made known:
All hid things by their contraries are shown.
Since God hath none, He, seeing all, denies
Himself eternally to mortal eyes.
From the dark jungle as a tiger bright,
Form from the viewless Spirit leaps to light.
When waves of thought from Wisdom's Sea profound
Arise, they clad themselves in speed and sound.
The lovely forms a fleeting sparkle gave,
Then fell and mingled with the falling wave.
So perish all things fair, to re-adorn
The Beauteous One whence all fair things were born.
("Reality and Appearance" translated by R. A. Nicholson, Rumi, printed 2006)
It took me a few times to grasp this lovely poem. If you don’t think you understand it, I encourage you to read it again. Then again. And again, until you think you see what Rumi is saying. Here what I see:
As light displays colors, so night covers them. In the darkness, all things are hidden, and must be known by things other than what is seen in the light, called “contraries”. But God has no “contraries”, no darknesses, so He remains invisible to human eyes eternally. He must be known by other means, described in the second part of the poem. I love the line about Wisdom’s Sea and the waves of that sea becoming speech and sound. Then in the end, all things fair come from God, The Beauteous One.
don't be bitter my friend
you'll regret it soon
hold to your togetherness
or surely you'll scatter
don't walk away gloomy
from this garden
you'll end up like an owl
dwelling in old ruins
face the war and
be a warrior like a lion
or you'll end up like a pet
tucked away in a stable
once you conquer
your selfish self
all your darkness
will change to light
("Don't be Bitter my Friend" translated by Nader Khalili, Rumi, printed 2006)
This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.
("The Guest House" translated by Coleman Barks, Rumi, printed 2006)
One of the things that stuck out to me when I read Mary Oliver’s Poetry Handbook was that a poet must read poetry avidly. I took Oliver’s advice and bought several poetry books recently.
One of Oliver’s favorite poets was the medieval Rumi, an Islamic mystic and founder of the Mevlevi Oder (the dancing dervishes). I have enjoyed the poems I’ve read thus far, though some I had to read a few times to gather the full meaning. I’m looking forward to sharing the poems I enjoyed the most.
Hi! I'm Cadie. Welcome to my Collection of Bookish Thoughts where I will share with you everything I love about books.