Monthly Archives: May 2006

The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam

yellow tulips, istanbul tulip festival, istanbul, pentax k10d

yellow tulips, istanbul tulip festival, istanbul, pentax k10d

The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam

33

Earth could not answer; nor the Seas that mourn
In flowing Purple, of their Lord forlorn;
Nor rolling Heaven, with all his Signs reveal’d
And hidden by the sleeve of Night and Morn.

34

Then of the THEE IN ME who works behind
The Veil, I lifted up my hands to find
A lamp amid the Darkness; and I heard,
As from Without-”THE ME WHITHIN THEE BLIND!”

35

Then to the Lip of this poor earthen Urn
I lean’d, the Secret of my Life to learn:
And Lip to Lip it murmur’d-”While you live,
“Drink!-for, once dead, you never shall return.”

36

I think the Vessel, that with fugitive
Articulation answer’d, once did live,
And drink; and Ah! the passive Lip I kiss’d,
How many Kisses might it take-and give!

37

For I remember stopping by the way
To watch a Potter thumping his wet Clay:
And with its all-obliterated Tongue
It murmur’d-”Gently, Brother, gently, pray!”

38

And has not such a Story from of Old
Down Man’s successive generations roll’d
Of such a clod of saturated Earth
Cast by the Maker into Human mould?

39

And not a drop that from our Cups we throw
For Earth to drink of, but may steal below
To quench the fire of Anguish in some Eye
There hidden-far beneath, and long ago.

40

As then the Tulip for her morning sup
Of Heav’nly Vintage from the soil looks up,
Do you devoutly do the like, till Heav’n
To Earth invert you-liko an empty Cup.

Omer Hayyam

by Edward FitzGerald

Into your brother’s face, your country And say simply Very simply With hope Good morning.

yellow flowers, istanbul ,pentax k10d

yellow flowers, istanbul ,pentax k10d

The Rock Cries Out to Us Today
A Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts to species long since departed,
Mark the mastodon.
The dinosaur, who left dry tokens
Of their sojourn here
On our planet floor,
Any broad alarm of their of their hastening doom
Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.
But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon my
Back and face your distant destiny,
But seek no haven in my shadow.
I will give you no hiding place down here.
You, created only a little lower than
The angels, have crouched too long in
The bruising darkness,
Have lain too long
Face down in ignorance.
Your mouths spelling words
Armed for slaughter.
The rock cries out today, you may stand on me,
But do not hide your face.
Across the wall of the world,
A river sings a beautiful song,
Come rest here by my side.
Each of you a bordered country,
Delicate and strangely made proud,
Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.
Your armed struggles for profit
Have left collars of waste upon
My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.
Yet, today I call you to my riverside,
If you will study war no more.
Come, clad in peace and I will sing the songs
The Creator gave to me when I
And the tree and stone were one.
Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your brow
And when you yet knew you still knew nothing.
The river sings and sings on.
There is a true yearning to respond to
The singing river and the wise rock.
So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew,
The African and Native American, the Sioux,
The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek,
The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,
The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
The privileged, the homeless, the teacher.
They hear. They all hear
The speaking of the tree.
Today, the first and last of every tree
Speaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the river.
Plant yourself beside me, here beside the river.
Each of you, descendant of some passed on
Traveller, has been paid for.
You, who gave me my first name,
You Pawnee, Apache and Seneca,
You Cherokee Nation, who rested with me,
Then forced on bloody feet,
Left me to the employment of other seekers–
Desperate for gain, starving for gold.
You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot…
You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru,
Bought, sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare
Praying for a dream.
Here, root yourselves beside me.
I am the tree planted by the river,
Which will not be moved.
I, the rock, I the river, I the tree
I am yours–your passages have been paid.
Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need
For this bright morning dawning for you.
History, despite its wrenching pain,
Cannot be unlived, and if faced with courage,
Need not be lived again.
Lift up your eyes upon
The day breaking for you.
Give birth again
To the dream.
Women, children, men,
Take it into the palms of your hands.
Mold it into the shape of your most
Private need. Sculpt it into
The image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts.
Each new hour holds new chances
For new beginnings.
Do not be wedded forever
To fear, yoked eternally
To brutishness.
The horizon leans forward,
Offering you space to place new steps of change.
Here, on the pulse of this fine day
You may have the courage
To look up and out upon me,
The rock, the river, the tree, your country.
No less to Midas than the mendicant.
No less to you now than the mastodon then.
Here on the pulse of this new day
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister’s eyes,
Into your brother’s face, your country
And say simply
Very simply
With hope
Good morning.

Maya Angelou

Love says : tulips

white flowers, istanbul, pentax k10d

white flowers, istanbul, pentax k10d

Love says ..

Reason says, “I will beguile him with the tongue;”
Love says, “Be silent. I will beguile him with the soul.”
The soul says to the heart, “Go, do not laugh at me
and yourself. What is there that is not his, that I may beguile him thereby?”
He is not sorrowful and anxious and seeking oblivion
that I may beguile him with wine and a heavy measure.
The arrow of his glance needs not a bow that I should
beguile the shaft of his gaze with a bow.
He is not prisoner of the world, fettered to this world
of earth, that I should beguile him with gold of the kingdom of the world.
He is an angel, though in form he is a man; he is not
lustful that I should beguile him with women.
Angels start away from the house wherein this form
is, so how should I beguile him with such a form and likeness?
He does not take a flock of horses, since he flies on wings;
his food is light, so how should I beguile him with bread?
He is not a merchant and trafficker in the market of the
world that I should beguile him with enchantment of gain and loss.
He is not veiled that I should make myself out sick and
utter sighs, to beguile him with lamentation.
I will bind my head and bow my head, for I have got out
of hand; I will not beguile his compassion with sickness or fluttering.
Hair by hair he sees my crookedness and feigning; what’s
hidden from him that I should beguile him with anything hidden.
He is not a seeker of fame, a prince addicted to poets,
that I should beguile him with verses and lyrics and flowing poetry.
The glory of the unseen form is too great for me to
beguile it with blessing or Paradise.
Shams-e Tabriz, who is his chosen and beloved – perchance
I will beguile him with this same pole of the age.

Mevlana

“Mystical Poems of Rumi 2″ A. J. Arberry
The University of Chicago Press, 1991


taken by Pentax K10D, at Istanbul

death, hell and love is internal

yellow-red tulip, istanbul tulip festival, istanbul, pentax k10d

yellow-red tulip, istanbul tulip festival, istanbul, pentax k10d

The Detached

We die,
Welcoming Bluebeards to our darkening closets,
Stranglers to our outstretched necks,
Stranglers, who neither care nor
care to know that
DEATH IS INTERNAL.

We pray,
Savoring sweet the teethed lies,
Bellying the grounds before alien gods,
Gods, who neither know nor
wish to know that
HELL IS INTERNAL.

We love,
Rubbing the nakednesses with gloved hands,
Inverting our mouths in tongued kisses,
Kisses that neither touch nor
care to touch if
LOVE IS INTERNAL.

Maya Angelou


With love all problems left me. With love I became happy.

yellow flower

yellow flower

taken by Pentax K10D, at Istanbul

Oh Friend

Oh Friend, when I began to love You,
my intellect went and left me.
I gazed at the rivers. I dove into the seas.

But a spark of Love’s fire
can make the seas boil.
I fell in, caught fire, and burned.

A soul in love is free of worries.
With love all problems left me.
With love I became happy.

When the nightingale saw the face
of the red rose, it fell in love.
I saw the faces of those who matured,
and became a nightingale.

I was a dead tree fallen onto the path.
When a master threw me a glance and
brought me to life.

Yunus, if you are a true lover,
humble yourself.
Humility was chosen by them all.

Yunus Emre

The Philosophy of Love

white flower, istanbul , pentax k10d

white flower, istanbul , pentax k10d

The Philosophy of Love

The thoughts and words of Mevlana Jalaluddin Rumi are creating a stir in the world even after 700 years of his passing away. One way in which he described himself is, “My Mother is Love, My Father is Love, My Prophet is Love, My God is Love, I am a child of Love and I have come only to speak of Love.”

A steady husband and father, Mevlana taught in the medrese (a center of learning similar to a university of the time), gave judgements on religious matters, and had many followers. But when he met the dervish of Tebriz, Shamsuddin Shams, Mevlana’s whole life of book learning, canonical views, and conservative behavior changed radically as the burning of Divine Love swept through him. He was completely absorbed with Shams, stayed in seclusion with him for months, and humbled himself in his attempt to meet his every wish. The moment of their meeting is referred to as “the meeting of two seas”. Each of them had attained an in-depth spiritual awareness, which distinguished them from others . Now these two would complete each other in the boundless Sea of Unity.

for full text  Anandmurti Gurumaa

tulips, when you come

yellow-red tulip, istanbul tulip festival, istanbul, pentax k10d

yellow-red tulip, istanbul tulip festival, istanbul, pentax k10d

When You Come

When you come to me, unbidden,
Beckoning me
To long-ago rooms,
Where memories lie.

Offering me, as to a child, an attic,
Gatherings of days too few.
Baubles of stolen kisses.
Trinkets of borrowed loves.
Trunks of secret words,

I CRY.

Maya Angelou

they’d spend one night, or two or three. But…

yellow tulips, istanbul tulip festival

yellow tulips, istanbul tulip festival

taken by Pentax K10D, at Istanbul

They Went Home

They went home and told their wives,
that never once in all their lives,
had they known a girl like me,
But… They went home.

They said my house was licking clean,
no word I spoke was ever mean,
I had an air of mystery,
But… They went home.

My praises were on all men’s lips,
they liked my smile, my wit, my hips,
they’d spend one night, or two or three.
But…

Maya Angelou

ashura days

ashura, aşure, pentax k10d

ashura, aşure, pentax k10d

Yet if we are bold, love strikes away the chains of fear from our souls.

yellow tulips

yellow tulips

taken by Pentax K10D, at Istanbul

Touched by an Angel

We, unaccustomed to courage
exiles from delight
live coiled in shells of loneliness
until love leaves its high holy temple
and comes into our sight
to liberate us into life.

Love arrives
and in its train come ecstasies
old memories of pleasure
ancient histories of pain.
Yet if we are bold,
love strikes away the chains of fear
from our souls.

We are weaned from our timidity
In the flush of love’s light
we dare be brave
And suddenly we see
that love costs all we are
and will ever be.
Yet it is only love
which sets us free.

Maya Angelou