Posts tagged poetry
Posts tagged poetry
The eye that sees
Things in its view,
Sometimes tied and tried
To aspects of time:
The old, the now, the new.
Yes… as fire burns,
We seldom remember:
The eye only sees-
It does not feel,
The tri-essence of time
It does not heal.
"What if I…"
Glorious is the trial!
Ugly is the regret:
A word with no ‘I’s,
Ugly for eyes,
Its ugliness is compounded
By its association
"Had only I…"
My salaam to the statement:
teaching a woman
is at her feet
is not an excuse
to leave her with her children
teaching a woman
she can enter through any door
is not an excuse
to lock her up behind one
teaching a woman
is not a reason
to hide her
the only true satisfaction
is in the remembrance of God
and your presence
was fooling both of us
into believing that we
could be this magical
Unbraid your hair. Let your fingertips slip through the curling strands.
Look in the mirror. Just look.
Feel the shards -
Wanting to reflect but the mirror is broken.
Smile a little more.
The sadness in your eyes might make your reflection swim
But don’t stop. Smiling.
Embrace the hurt.
Plunge, face first,
Into the newly carved
This pain is holy.
Breaking you to make you whole again.
You will learn
What is true
And what is real.
And while you drown,
Gasp and splutter -
Racking sobs and heaving sighs -
Call out His name,
Call on His Beloved.
That is the rope which you should have grasped.
The longer you allow it to slip
Through your hand,
The longer it shall burn.
The rough before the smooth.
The bitter before the sweet.
The illusion before the truth.
"The sky is mine," said the Prince.
One day, it shall be ours.
she is a wide floating meadow
with more green than gravity
and more beauty than my eyes can hold
my eyes swollen trying to drink her in
but they cannot bear it
like heavy rain laden clouds
if I don’t weep I fear they would explode
headless but heartfelt
heart too smart for it’s…
Love can make the sane walk out of suburban doors
and wake up on psychiatric wards
Having forgotten their own names and from where they came.
Love can make the mildest amongst us
Lay awake at night plotting the demise
Of the one who took her love away
Leaving a raging hole where her heart…
"Love is the way Coltrane kissed his saxophone
In that moment you would think they were all alone
No band, no audience, no stage, no microphone
Just the ‘Player’ and the ‘Played’ in a dreamy haze
And then he awakes and realises everyone was watching them make love.”
Love love LOVE this!!!
I’ve never done this before.
Stuck my neck out on the line.
Not for anyone.
It’s all too easy to end up heedless, headless.
I’ve never felt this before.
That little bird fluttering madly against my ribcage -
It sings a little louder when squeezed.
Until you can open the catch, it’ll be a bittersweet melody.
I’ve never said this before.
But I don’t care if you’re broken because
I want to gather those shards, taste
The blood and kiss each scar of gold.
He’s yours - half the beauty of the world -
But you’d blaspheme and say he was all.
Love and pain inextricably intertwined.
Oh, yes, these thorns hurt but, my God,
Just watch that rose bloom.
A poem for those who learn to hear the whisper
*Photograph - Three candles
Last night, I attended a live performance by Amir Sulaiman at Rumi’s Cave.
It was an intimate affair: cosy, low lights, packed out, seated on cushions, we were transported to somebody’s living room, not a hall, having a conversation on art and spirituality, love and violence.
what of the one who so loved the unknown
he wanted to know the unknown
and in his knowing killed his beloved
what of the one who so loved peace
he fought for peace
and in his fighting he killed his beloved
what of the one who so loved contentment
he desired to have no desires
and in his desire he killed his beloved
what of the one who so loved love
he hated hate
and in his hating he killed his beloved
what of I who so loves you
- Amir Sulaiman, from ‘Love, Gnosis & Other Suicide Attempts’
“INTERVIEWER You are one of the most widely translated poets—into about thirty languages. Into what languages are you best translated?NERUDA: I would say into Italian, because of the similarity between the two languages. English and French, which are the two languages I know outside of Italian, are languages which do not correspond to Spanish—neither in vocalization, or in the placement, or the color, or the weight of the words. It is not a question of interpretative equivalence; no, the sense can be right, but this correctness of translation, of meaning, can be the destruction of a poem. In many of the translations into French—I don’t say in all of them—my poetry escapes, nothing remains; one cannot protest because it says the same thing that one has written. But it is obvious that if I had been a French poet, I would not have said what I did in that poem, because the value of the words is so different. I would have written something else.INTERVIEWER And in English?NERUDA: I find the English language so different from Spanish—so much more direct—that many times it expresses the meaning of my poetry, but does not convey the atmosphere of my poetry. It may be that the same thing happens when an English poet is translated into Spanish.”
— An excerpt from Pablo Neruda interviewed by Rita Guibert in The Art of Poetry No.14 by The Paris Review.
This reminded me of a conversation I’d had with my Iranian colleague the other day.
I’d mentioned what I’d read on one of the blogs that I follow, namely how an Iranian guy had told his girlfriend, “Fadat besham (sp.?)”, literally “I would die for you”, as an expression for his love for her.
That’s pretty intense, right? And I love that about languages like Farsi, Arabic and Urdu. They have such rich rhetorical devices, such poetry, to describe things like love. English is really dry, in that respect.
“I love you." That’s cool. But it’s so… blunt.
Majid pointed something out to me, though.
"If he says ‘I love you’, then it’s direct, usually because he means it. With Farsi, he’ll tell you all those beautiful phrases, "Fadat besham", etc., etc., and even with that honey, he’ll still have his eyes looking around."
I laughed out loud but it got me thinking: these poetical languages are double-edged swords.
It can describe one’s love, one’s intensity, much better than the English can. Yet, at the same time, it leaves you open to a more evident hollowness, if you don’t mean it. The shallowness of insincerity is even more disappointing in a way.
I could go off on all types of tangents, but then I think of Darija equivalents and I cringe a little.
Is “kan bgheek” really the best we have to offer?
The Sun never says to the Earth, “You owe me.”
“What ails your eyes, that when you bid them cease they weep still more?
What ails your heart, that when you bid it wake it wanders?”
And I know you prefer a broken neck to another broken heart.
Broken parts that litter the night sky like stars.
But remember even the beauty of birth leaves its own scars.
And know that you will find your home right where you are.
We will find our homes right where we are.