About the Mantiq al-Tayr |
"And silently their shining Lord replies:
'I am a mirror set before your eyes,
And all who come before my splendor see
Themselves, their own unique reality ...
... The Simurgh, Truth's last flawless jewel, the light
In which you will be lost to mortal sight,
Dispersed to nothingness until once more
You find in Me the selves you were before.'"
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Sunday, December 31, 2006 |
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Dear hoopoe, welcome! You will be our guide; It was on you King Solomon relied To carry secret messages between His court and distant Sheba's lovely queen. He knew your language and you knew his heart -- As his close confidant you learnt the art Of holding demons captive underground, And for these valiant exploits you were crowned.
And you are welcome, finch! Rise up and play Those liquid notes that steal men's hearts away; Like Moses you have seen the flames burn high On Sinai's slopes and there you long to fly, Like him avoid cruel Pharaoh's hand, and seek Your promised home on Sinai's mountain peak. There you will understand unspoken words Too subtle for the ears of mortal birds.
And welcome, parrot, perched in paradise! Your splendid plumage bears a strange device, A necklace of bright fire about the throat; Though heaven's bliss is promised by your coat, This circle stands for hell; if you can flee Like Abraham from Nimrod's enmity, Despise these flames -- uninjured will you tread Through fire if first you cut off Nimrod's head, And when the fear of him has died put on Your gorgeous coat; your collar's strength has gone!
Welcome, dear partridge -- how you strut with pride Along the slopes of wisdom's mountain-side; Let laughter ring out where your feet have trod, Then strike with all your strength the door of God; Destroy the mountain of the Self, and here, From ruined rocks a camel will appear; Beside its new-born noble hooves, a stream Of honey mingled with white milk will gleam -- Drive on this beast and at your journey's end Saleh will greet you as a long-lost friend.
Rare falcon, welcome! How long will you be So fiercely jealous of your liberty? Your lure is love, and when the jess is tied, Submit, and be for ever satisfied. Give up the intellect for love and see In one brief moment all eternity; Break nature's frame, be resolute and brave, Then rest at peace in Unity's black cave. Rejoice in that close, undisturbed dark air -- The Prophet will be your companion there.*
And welcome, francolin! Since once you heard And answered God's first all-commanding word, Since love has spoken in your soul, reject The Self, that whirlpool where our lives are wrecked; As Jesus rode his donkey, ride on it; Your stubborn Self must bear you and submit -- Then burn this Self and purify your soul; Let Jesus' spotless spirit be your goal. Destroy this burden, and before your eyes The Holy Ghost in glory will arise.
Welcome, dear nightingale -- from your sweet throat Pour out the pain of lovers note by note. Like David in love's garden gently sigh; There sing the songs that make men long to die, O, sing as David did, and with your song Guide home man's suffering and deluded throng. The Self is like a mail coat -- melt this steel To pliant wax with David's holy zeal, And when its metal melts, like David you Will melt with love and bid the Self adieu.
And welcome, peacock -- once of paradise, Who let the venomous, smooth snake entice Your instincts to its master's evil way, And suffered exile for that fateful day; He blackened your untutored heart and made A tangled darkness of the orchard's shade -- Until you crush this snake, how can you be A pilgrim worthy of our mystery? Destroy its ugly charm and Adam then Will welcome you to paradise again.
Cock pheasant, welcome! With your piercing sight, Look up and see the heart's source drowned in light; You are imprisoned in your filthy well, A dark and noisome, unremitting hell -- Rise from this well as Joseph did and gain The throne of Egypt's fabulous domain, Where you and Joseph will together reign.
Dear pigeon, welcome -- with what joy you yearn To fly away, how sadly you return! Your heart is wrung with grief, you share the gaol That Jonah knew, the belly of a whale -- The Self has swallowed you for its delight; How long will you endure its mindless spite? Cut off its head, seek out the moon, and fly Beyond the utmost limits of the sky; Escape this monster and become the friend Of Jonah in that ocean without end.
Welcome, sweet turtle-dove, and softly coo Until the heavens scatter jewels on you -- But what ingratitude you show! Around Your neck a ring of loyalty is bound, But while you live you blithely acquiesce From head to claw in smug ungratefulness; Abandon such self-love and you will see The Way that leads us to Reality. There knowledge is your guide, and Khezr will bring Clear water drawn from life's eternal spring.
And welcome, hawk! Your flight is high and proud, But you return with head politely bowed -- In blood and in affliction you must drown, And I suggest you keep your head bent down! What are you here? Mere carrion, rotten flesh, Withheld from Truth by this world's clumsy mesh; Outsoar both this world and the next, and there, Released from both, take off the hood you wear -- When you have turned from both worlds you will land On Zulgharnin's outstretched and welcome hand.
And little goldfinch, welcome! May your fire Be an external sign of fierce desire. Whatever happens, burn in those bright flames, And shut your eyes and soul to earthly claims. Then, as you burn, whatever pain you feel, Remember God will recompense your zeal; When you perceive His hidden secrets, give Your life to God's affairs and truly live -- At last, made perfect in Reality, You will be gone, and only God will be.
* A reference to the Companion of the Cave. During a period of danger the Prophet Mohammad and a close companion, Abou Bakr, hid for a while in a cave on Mount Thaur. In mystical poetry this episode became a symbol of withdrawal from the world. |
posted by Firesong @ 12:00 AM   |
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Saturday, December 30, 2006 |
The birds assemble and the hoopoe tells them of the Simorgh |
The world's birds gathered for their conference And said: "Our constitution makes no sense. All nations in the world require a king; How is it we alone have no such thing? Only a kingdom can be justly run; We need a king and must inquire for one."
They argued how to set about their quest. The hoopoe fluttered forward; on his breast There shone the symbol of the Spirit's Way And on his head Truth's crown, a feathered spray. Discerning, righteous and intelligent, He spoke: "My purposes are heaven-sent; I keep God's secrets, mundane and divine, In proof of which behold the holy sign Bisillah* etched for ever on my beak. No one can share the grief with which I seek Our longed-for Lord, and quickened by my haste My wits find water in the trackless waste. I come as Solomon's close friend and claim The matchless wisdom of that mighty name (He never asked for those who quit his court, But when I left him once alone he sought With anxious vigilance for my return -- Measure my worth by this great king's concern!). I bore his letters -- back again I flew -- Whatever secrets he divined I knew; A prophet loved me; God has trusted me; What other bird has won such dignity? For years I travelled over many lands, Past oceans, mountains, valleys, desert sands, And when the Deluge rose I flew around The world itself and never glimpsed dry ground; With Solomon I set out to explore The limits of the earth from shore to shore. I know our king -- but how can I alone Endure the journey to His distant throne? Join me, and when at last we end our quest Our king will greet you as His honoured guest. How long will you persist in blasphemy? Escape your self-hood's vicious tyranny -- Whoever can evade the Self transcends This world and as a lover he ascends. Set free your soul; impatient of delay, Step out along our sovereign's royal Way: We have a king; beyond Kaf's mountain peak The Simorgh lives, the sovereign whom you seek, And He is always near to us, though we Live far from His transcendent majesty. A hundred thousand veils of dark and light Withdraw His presence from our mortal sight, And in both worlds no being shares the throne That marks the Simorgh's power and His alone -- He reigns in undisturbed omnipotence, Bathed in the light of His magnificence -- No mind, no intellect can penetrate The mystery of his unending state: How many countless hundred thousands pray For patience and true knowledge of the Way That leads to Him whom reason cannot claim, Nor mortal purity describe or name; There soul and mind bewildered miss the mark And, faced by Him, like dazzled eyes, are dark -- No sage could understand His perfect grace, Nor seer discern the beauty of His face. His creatures strive to find a path to Him, Deluded by each new, deceitful whim, But fancy cannot work as she would wish; You cannot weigh the moon like so much fish! How many search for Him whose heads are sent Like polo-balls in some great tournament From side to giddy side -- how many cries, How many countless groans assail the skies! Do not imagine that the Way is short; Vast seas and deserts lie before His court. Consider carefully before you start; The journey asks of you a lion's heart. The road is long, the sea is deep -- one flies First buffeted by joy and then by sighs; If you desire this quest, give up your soul And make our sovereign's court your only goal. First wash your hands of life if you would say: 'I am a pilgrim of our sovereign's Way'; Renounce your soul for love; He you pursue Will sacrifice His inmost soul for you.
It was in China, late one moonless night, The Simorgh first appeared to mortal sight -- He let a feather float down through the air, And rumours of its fame spread everywhere; Throughout the world men separately conceived An image of its shape, and all believed Their private fantasies uniquely true! (In China still this feather is on view, Whence comes the saying you have heard, no doubt, 'Seek knowledge, unto China seek it out.') If this same feather had not floated down, The world would not be filled with His renown -- It is a sign of Him, and in each heart There lies this feather's hidden counterpart. But since no words suffice, what use are mine To represent or to describe this sign? Whoever wishes to explore the Way, Let him set out -- what more is there to say?"
The hoopoe finished, and at once the birds Effusively responded to his words. All praised the splendour of their distant king; All rose impatient to be on the wing; Each would renounce the Self and be the friend Of his companions till the journey's end. But when they pondered on the journey's length, They hesitated; their ambitious strength Dissolved: each bird, according to his kind, Felt flattered but reluctantly declined. * 'In the name of God', the opening words of the Koran |
posted by Firesong @ 12:00 AM   |
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Friday, December 29, 2006 |
The nightingale's excuse |
The nightingale made his excuses first. His pleading notes described the lover's thirst, And through the crowd hushed silence spread as he Descanted on love's scope and mystery. "The secrets of all love are known to me," He crooned. "Throughout the darkest night my song Resounds, and to my retinue belong The sweet notes of the melancholy lute, The plaintive wailing of the love-sick flute; When love speaks in the soul my voice replies In accents plangent as the ocean's sighs. The man who hears this song spurns reason's rule; Grey wisdom is content to be love's fool. My love is for the rose; I bow to her; From her dear presence I could never stir. If she should disappear the nightingale Would lose his reason and his song would fail, And though my grief is one that no bird knows, One being understands my heart -- the rose. I am so drowned in love that I can find No thought of my existence in my mind. Her worship is sufficient life for me; The quest for her is my reality (And nightingales are not robust or strong; The path to find the Simorgh is too long). My love is here; the journey you propose Cannot beguile me from my life -- the rose. It is for me she flowers; what greater bliss Could life provide me -- anywhere -- than this? Her buds are mine; she blossoms in my sight -- How could I leave her for a single night?"
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posted by Firesong @ 12:00 AM   |
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Thursday, December 28, 2006 |
The hoopoe answers him |
The hoopoe answered him: "Dear nightingale, This superficial love which makes you quail Is only for the outward show of things. Renounce delusion and prepare your wings For our great quest; sharp thorns defend the rose And beauty such as hers too quickly goes. True love will see such empty transience For what it is -- a fleeting turbulence That fills your sleepless nights with grief and blame -- Forget the rose's blush and blush for shame! Each spring she laughs, not for you, as you say, But at you -- and has faded in a day.
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posted by Firesong @ 12:00 AM   |
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Wednesday, December 27, 2006 |
The story of a dervish and a princess |
There was a king whose comely daughter's grace Was such that any many who glimpsed her face Declared himself in love. Like starless dusk Her dark hair hung, soft-scented like fine musk; The charm of her slow humid eyes awoke The depths of sleeping love, and when she spoke, No sugar was as sweet as her lips' sweet; No rubies with their colour could compete. A dervish saw her, by the will of Fate. From his arrested hand the crust he ate Dropped unregarded, and the princess smiled. This glance lived in his heart -- the man grew wild With ardent love, with restless misery; For seven years he wept continually And was content to live alone and wait, Abject, among stray dogs, outside her gate. At last, affronted by this fool and tired Of his despair, her serving-men conspired To murder him. The princess heard their plan, Which she divulged to him. 'O wretched man,' She said, 'how could you hope for love between A dervish and the daughter of a queen? You cannot live outside my palace door; Be off with you and haunt these streets no more. If you are here tomorrow you will die!' The dervish answered her: 'That day when I First saw your beauty I despaired of life; Why should I fear the hired assassin's knife? A hundred thousand men adore your face; No power on earth could make me leave this place. But since your servants mean to murder me, Explain the meaning of this mystery: Why did you smile at me that day?' 'Poor fool, I smiled from pity, almost ridicule -- Your ignorance provoked that smile.' She spoke, And vanished like a wisp of strengthless smoke."
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posted by Firesong @ 12:00 AM   |
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Tuesday, December 26, 2006 |
The parrot's excuse |
The pretty parrot was the next to speak, Clothed all in green, with sugar in her beak, And round her neck a circle of pure gold. Even the falcon cannot boast so bold A loveliness -- earth's variegated green Is but the image of her feathers' sheen, And when she talks the fascinating sound Seems sweet as costly sugar finely ground; She trilled: "I have been caged by heartless men, But my desire is to be free again; If I could reassert my liberty I'd find the stream of immortality Guarded by Khezr -- his cloak is green like mine, And this shared colour is an open sign I am his equal or equivalent. Only the stream Khezr watches could content My thirsting soul -- I have no wish to seek This Simorgh's throne of which you love to speak."
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posted by Firesong @ 12:00 AM   |
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Monday, December 25, 2006 |
The hoopoe answers her |
The hoopoe said: "You are a cringing slave -- This is not noble, generous or brave, To think your being has no other end Than finding water and a loyal friend. Think well -- what is it that you hope to gain? Your coat is beautiful, but where's your brain? Act as a lover and renounce your soul; With love's defiance seek the lover's goal.
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posted by Firesong @ 12:00 AM   |
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Sunday, December 24, 2006 |
A story about Khezr |
Khezr sought companionship with one whose mind Was set on God alone. The man declined And said to Khezr: 'We two could not be friends, For our existences have different ends. The waters of immortal life are yours, And you must always live; life is your cause As death is mine -- you wish to live, whilst I Impatiently prepare myself to die; I leave you as quick birds avoid a snare, To soar up in the free, untrammelled air'."
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posted by Firesong @ 12:00 AM   |
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Saturday, December 23, 2006 |
The peacock's excuse and the hoopoe's answer |
Next came the peacock, splendidly arrayed In many-coloured pomp; this he displayed As if he were some proud, self-conscious bride Turning with haughty looks from side to side. "The Painter of the world created me," He shrieked, "but this celestial wealth you see Should not excite your hearts to jealousy. I was a dweller once in paradise; There the insinuating snake's advice Deceived me -- I became his friend, disgrace Was swift and I was banished from that place. My dearest hope is that some blessèd day A guide will come to indicate the way Back to my paradise. The king you praise Is too unknown a goal; my inward gaze Is fixed for ever on that lovely land -- There is the goal which I can understand. How could I seek the Simorgh out when I Remember paradise?" And in reply The hoopoe said: "These thoughts have made you stray Further and further from the proper Way; You think your monarch's palace of more worth Than Him who fashioned it and all the earth. The home we seek is in eternity; The Truth we seek is like a shoreless sea, Of which your paradise is but a drop. This ocean can be yours; why should you stop Beguiled by dreams of evanescent dew? The secrets of the sun are yours, but you Content yourself with motes trapped in its beams. Turn to what truly lives, reject what seems -- Which matters more, the body or the soul? Be whole: desire and journey to the Whole.
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posted by Firesong @ 12:00 AM   |
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Friday, December 22, 2006 |
A story about Adam |
A novice asked his master to explain Why Adam was forbidden to remain In his first undivided happiness. The master said: 'When he, whose name we bless, Awoke in paradise a voice declared: "The man whose mind and vision are ensnared By heaven's grace must forfeit that same grace, For only then can he direct his face To his true Lord".' The lover's live and soul Are firmly focused on a single goal; The saints in paradise teach that the start Of drawing near is to renounce the heart."
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posted by Firesong @ 12:00 AM   |
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Thursday, December 21, 2006 |
The duck's excuse |
The coy duck waddled from her stream and quacked: "Now none of you can argue with the fact That both in this world and the next I am The purest bird that ever flew or swam; I spread my prayer-mat out, and all the time I clean myself of every bit of grime As God commands. There's no doubt in my mind That purity like mine is hard to find; Among the birds I'm like an anchorite -- My soul and feathers are a spotless white. I live in water and I cannot go To places where no streams or rivers flow; They wash away a world of discontent -- Why should I leave this perfect element? Fresh water is my home, my sanctuary; What use would arid deserts be to me? I can't leave water -- think what water gives; It is the source of everything that lives. Water's the only home I've ever known; Why should I care about this Simorgh's throne?"
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posted by Firesong @ 12:00 AM   |
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Wednesday, December 20, 2006 |
The hoopoe answers her |
The hoopoe answered her: "Your life is passed In vague, aquatic dreams which cannot last -- A sudden wave and they are swept away. You value water's purity, you say, But is your life as pure as you declare? A fool described the nature both worlds share: ‘The unseen world and that which we can see Are like a water-drop which instantly Is and is not. A water-drop was formed When time began, and on its surface swarmed The world's appearances. If they were made Of all-resisting iron they would fade; Hard iron is mere water, after all -- Dispersing like a dream, impalpable'."
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posted by Firesong @ 12:00 AM   |
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Tuesday, December 19, 2006 |
The partridge's excuse |
The pompous partridge was next to speak, Fresh from his store of pearls. His crimson beak And ruddy plumage made a splendid show -- A headstrong bird whose small eyes seemed to glow With angry blood. He clucked: "My one desire Is jewels; I pick through quarries for their fire. They kindle in my heart an answering blaze Which satisfies me -- though my wretchèd days Are one long turmoil of anxiety. Consider how I live, and let me be; You cannot fight with one who sleeps and feeds On precious stones, who is convinced he needs No other goal in life. My heart is tied By bonds of love to this fair mountain-side. To yearn for something other than a jewel Is to desire what dies -- to be a fool. Nothing is precious like a precious stone. Besides, the journey to the Simorgh's throne Is hard. I cannot tear myself away; My feet refuse as if caught fast in clay. My life is here; I have no wish to fly; I must discover precious stones or die."
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posted by Firesong @ 12:00 AM   |
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Monday, December 18, 2006 |
The hoopoe answers him |
The hoopoe said: "You have the colours of Those jewels you so inordinately love, And yet you seem -- like your excuses -- lame. Your beak and claws are red as blood or flame Yet those hard gems from which you cannot part Have only helped you to a hardened heart; Without their colours they are nothing more Than stones -- and to the wise not worth a straw.
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posted by Firesong @ 12:00 AM   |
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Sunday, December 17, 2006 |
King Solomon and his ring |
No jewel surpasses that which Solomon Wore on his finger. It was just a stone, A mere half-dang in weight, but as a seal Set in his ring it brought the world to heel. When he perceived the nature of his rule -- Dependent on the credit of a jewel -- He vowed that no one after him should reign With such authority." (Do not again, Dear God, I pray, create such puissant kings; My eyes have seen the blight their glory brings. But criticising courts is not my task; A basket-weaver's work is all I ask, And I return to Solomon's great seal.) "Although the power it brought the king was real, Possession of this gem meant that delay Dogged his advance along the spirit's Way -- The other prophets entered paradise Five hundred years before the king. This price A jewel extracted from great Solomon, How would it hinder such a dizzy one As you, dear partridge? Rise above this greed; The Simorgh is the only jewel you need."
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posted by Firesong @ 12:00 AM   |
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Saturday, December 16, 2006 |
The homa's excuse |
The homa* next addressed the company. Because his shadow heralds majesty, This wandering portent of the royal state Is known as Homayun, 'The Fortunate'. He sang: "O birds of land and ocean, I Am not as other birds, but soar and fly On lofty aspiration's lordly wings. I have subdued the dog desire; great kings Like Feridoun and Jamshid** owe their place To my dark shadow's influence. Disgrace And lowly natures are not my concern. I throw desire its bone; the dog will turn And let the soul go free. Who can look down On one whose shadow brings the royal crown? The world should bask in my magnificence -- Let Khosroe's glory stand in my defence. What should this haughty Simorgh mean to me?"
* A mythical bird whose shadow would fall on a future king ** Two of the most illustrious of the legendary kings of ancient Persia |
posted by Firesong @ 12:00 AM   |
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Friday, December 15, 2006 |
The hoopoe answers him |
The hoopoe said: "Poor slave to vanity, Your self-importance is ridiculous; Why should a shadow merit so much fuss? You are not now the sign of Khosroe's throne, More like a stray dog squabbling for a bone. Though it is true that you confer on men This majesty, kings must sink down again And bear the punishments of Judgement Day.
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posted by Firesong @ 12:00 AM   |
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Thursday, December 14, 2006 |
King Mahmoud after death |
There was a man, advanced along the Way, Who one night spoke to Mahmoud in a dream. He said: 'Great king, how does existence seem To one beyond the grave?' Mahmoud replied: 'I have no majesty since I have died; Your greetings pierce my soul. That majesty Was only ignorance and vanity; True majesty belongs to God alone -- How could a heap of dust deserve the throne? Since I have recognized my impotence, I blush for my imperial pretence. Call me "unfortunate", not "king". I should Have been a wanderer who begged for food, A crossing-sweeper, any lowly thing That drags its way through life, but not a king. Now leave me; I have no more to say; Hell's devils wait for me; I cannot stay. I wish to God the earth beneath my feet Had swallowed me before I heard the beat Of that accursèd homa's wings; they cast Their shade, and may they shrivel in hell's blast!' "
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posted by Firesong @ 12:00 AM   |
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Wednesday, December 13, 2006 |
The hawk's excuse |
The hawk came forward with his head held high; His boasts of grand connections filled the sky. His talk was stuffed with armies, glory, kings. He bragged: "The ecstasy my sovereign brings Has turned my gaze from vulgar company. My eyes are hooded and I cannot see, But I perch proudly on my sovereign's wrist. I know court etiquette and can persist In self-control like holy penitents; When I approach the king, my deference Correctly keeps to the established rule. What is this Simorgh? I should be a fool If I so much as dreamt of him. A seed From my great sovereign's hand is all I need; The eminence I have suffices me. I cannot travel; I would rather be Perched on the royal wrist than struggling through Some arid wadi with no end in view. I am delighted by my life at court, Waiting on kings or hunting for their sport."
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posted by Firesong @ 12:00 AM   |
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Tuesday, December 12, 2006 |
The hoopoe answers him |
The hoopoe said: "Dear hawk, you set great store By superficial graces, and ignore The all-important fact of purity. A king with rivals in his dignity Is no true king; the Simorgh rules alone And entertains no rivals to his throne. A king is not one of these common fools Who snatches at a crown and thinks he rules. The true king reigns in mild humility, Unrivalled in his firm fidelity. An earthly king acts righteously at times, But also stains the earth with hateful crimes, And then whoever hovers nearest him Will suffer most from his destructive whim. A courtier risks destruction every hour -- Distance yourself from kings and worldly power. A king is like a raging fire, men say; The wisest conduct is to keep away.
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posted by Firesong @ 12:00 AM   |
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Monday, December 11, 2006 |
A king and his slave |
There was a monarch once who loved a slave. The youth's pale beauty haunted him; he gave This favourite the rarest ornaments, Watched over him with jealous reverence -- But when the king expressed a wish to shoot, His loved one shook with fear from head to foot. An apple balanced on his head would be The target for the royal archery, And as the mark was split he blenched with fear. One day a foolish courtier standing near Asked why his lovely face was drained and wan, For was he not their monarch's chosen one? The slave replied: "If I were hit instead Of that round apple balanced on my head, I would be then quite worthless to the king -- Injured or dead, lower than anything The court can show; but when the arrow hits The trembling target and the apple splits, That is his skill. The king is highly skilled If he succeeds -- if not, the slave is killed'."
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posted by Firesong @ 12:00 AM   |
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Sunday, December 10, 2006 |
The heron's excuse |
The heron whimpered next: "My misery Prefers the empty shoreline of the sea. There no one hears my desolate, thin cry -- I wait in sorrow there, there mourn and sigh. My love is for the ocean, but since I -- A bird -- must be excluded from the deep, I haunt the solitary shore and weep. My beak is dry -- not one drop can I drink -- But if the level of the sea should sink By one drop, jealous rage would seize my heart. This love suffices me; how can I start A journey like the one that you suggest? I cannot join you in this arduous quest. The Simorgh's glory could not comfort me; My love is fixed entirely on the sea."
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posted by Firesong @ 12:00 AM   |
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Saturday, December 09, 2006 |
The hoopoe answers him |
The hoopoe answered him: "You do not know The nature of this sea you love: below Its surface linger sharks; tempests appear, Then sudden calms -- its course is never clear, But turbid, varying, in constant stress; Its water's taste is salty bitterness. How many noble ships has it destroyed, Their crews sucked under in the whirlwind's void: The diver plunges and in fear of death Must struggle to conserve his scanty breath; The failure is cast up, a broken straw. Who trusts the sea? Lawlessness is her law; You will be drowned if you cannot decide To turn away from her inconstant tide. She seethes with love herself -- that turbulence Of tumbling waves, that yearning violence, Are for her Lord, and since she cannot rest, What peace could you discover in her breast? She lives for Him -- yet you are satisfied To hear His invitation and to hide.
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posted by Firesong @ 12:00 AM   |
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Friday, December 08, 2006 |
A hermit questions the ocean |
A hermit asked the ocean: 'Why are you Clothed in these mourning robes of darkest blue?* You seem to boil, and yet I see no fire!' The ocean said: 'My feverish desire Is for the absent Friend. I am too base For Him; my dark robes indicate disgrace And lonely pain. Love makes my billows rage; Love is the fire which nothing can assuage. My salt lips thirst for Kausar's** cleansing stream.' For those pure waters tens of thousands dream And are prepared to perish; night and day They search and fall exhausted by the Way."
* Blue was the colour of mourning in ancient Persia; the epic poet Ferdowsi (10th -11th centuries) mentions it as being worn by the first of the legendary Persian kings, Keyumars, when in mourning for his son Siyamak. ** A stream that flows through paradise. |
posted by Firesong @ 12:00 AM   |
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Thursday, December 07, 2006 |
The owl's excuse |
The owl approached with his distracted air, Hooting: "Abandoned ruins are my lair, Because, wherever mortals congregate, Strife flourishes and unforgiving hate; A tranquil mind is only to be found Away from men, in wild, deserted ground. These ruins are my melancholy pleasure, Not least because they harbour buried treasure. Love for such treasure has directed me To desolate, waste sites; in secrecy I hide my hopes that one fine day my foot Will stumble over unprotected loot. Love for the Simorgh is a childish story; My love is solely for gold's buried glory."
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posted by Firesong @ 12:00 AM   |
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Wednesday, December 06, 2006 |
The hoopoe answers him |
The hoopoe answered him: "Besotted fool, Suppose you get this gold for which you drool -- What could you do but guard it night and day While life itself -- unnoticed -- slips away? The love of gold and jewels is blasphemy; Our faith is wrecked by such idolatry. To love gold is to be an infidel, An idol-worshipper who merits hell. On Judgement Day the miser's secret greed Stares from his face for everyone to read.
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posted by Firesong @ 12:00 AM   |
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Tuesday, December 05, 2006 |
The miser who became a mouse |
A miser died, leaving a cache of gold; And in a dream what should the son behold But his dead father, shaped now like a mouse That dashed distractedly about the house, His mouse-eyes filled with tears. The sleeping son Spoke in his dream: 'Why, father, must you run About our home like this?' The poor mouse said: 'Who guards my store of gold now I am dead? Has any thief found out its hiding-place?' The son asked next about his mouse-like face And heard his father say: 'Learn from my state; Whoever worships gold, this is his fate -- To haunt the hidden cache for evermore, An anxious mouse that darts across the floor'."
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posted by Firesong @ 12:00 AM   |
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Monday, December 04, 2006 |
The finch's excuse |
The timid finch approached. Her feeble frame Trembled from head to foot, a nervous flame; She chirped: "I am less sturdy than a hair And lack the courage that my betters share; My feathers are too weak to carry me The distance to the Simorgh's sanctuary. How could a sickly creature stand alone Before the glory of the Simorgh's throne? The world is full of those who seek His grace, But I do not deserve to see His face. And cannot join in this delusive race -- Exhaustion would cut short my foolish days, Or I should turn to ashes in His gaze. Joseph was hidden in a well and I Shall seek my loved one in the wells nearby."
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posted by Firesong @ 12:00 AM   |
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Sunday, December 03, 2006 |
The hoopoe answers her |
The hoopoe said: "You teasing little bird, This humble ostentation is absurd! If all of us are destined for the fire, Then you too must ascend the burning pyre. Get ready for the road, you can't fool me -- Sew up your beak, I loathe hypocrisy! Though Jacob mourned for Joseph's absent face, Do you imagine you could take his place?
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posted by Firesong @ 12:00 AM   |
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Saturday, December 02, 2006 |
Jacob's dream when Joseph was lost |
When Jacob lost his son his eyes grew blind; Tears flooded for the child he could not find. His lips repeatedly formed Joseph's name -- To his despair the angel Gabriel came And said: 'Renounce this word; if you persist, Your own name will be cancelled from the list Of prophets close to God.' Since this command Came from his God, dear Joseph's name was banned Henceforth from Jacob's lips; deep in his soul He hid the passions he could not control. But as he slept one night the long-lost child Appeared before him in a dream, and smiled; He started up to call him to his side -- And then remembered, struck his breast and sighed When from his vivid dream the old man woke, The angel Gabriel came to him, and spoke: 'Though you did not pronounce your lost son's name, You sighed -- the exhalation meant the same As if you had renounced your vow; a sigh Reveals the heart as clearly as a cry'."
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posted by Firesong @ 12:00 AM   |
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Friday, December 01, 2006 |
The other birds protest and the hoopoe tells them of their relationship with the Simorgh |
The other birds in turn received their chance To show off their loquacious ignorance. All made excuses -- floods of foolish words Flowed from these babbling, rumour-loving birds. Forgive me, reader, if I do not say All these excuses to avoid the Way; But in an incoherent rush they came, And all were inappropriate and lame. How could they gain the Simorgh? Such a goal Belongs to those who discipline the soul. The hoopoe counselled them: "The world holds few As worthy of the Simorgh's throne as you, But you must empty this first glass; the wine That follows it is love's devoted sign. If petty problems keep you back -- or none -- How will you seek the treasures of the sun? In drops you lose yourselves, yet you must dive Through untold fathoms and remain alive. This is no journey for the indolent -- Our quest is Truth itself, not just its scent!"
When they had understood the hoopoe's words, A clamour of complaint rose from the birds: "Although we recognise you as our guide, You must accept -- it cannot be denied -- We are a wretched, flimsy crew at best, And lack the bare essentials for this quest. Our feathers and our wings, our bodies' strength Are quite unequal to the journey's length; For one of us to reach the Simorgh's throne Would be miraculous, a thing unknown. At least say what relationship obtains Between His might and ours; who can take pains To search for mysteries when he is blind? If there were some connection we could find, We would be more prepared to take our chance. He seems like Solomon, and we like ants; How can mere ants climb from their darkened pit Up to the Simorgh's realm? And is it fit That beggars try the glory of a king? How ever could they manage such a thing?"
The hoopoe answered them: "How can love thrive In hearts impoverished and half alive? 'Beggars', you say -- such niggling poverty Will not encourage truth or charity. A man whose eyes love opens risks his soul -- His dancing breaks beyond the mind's control When long ago the Simorgh first appeared -- His face like sunlight when the clouds have cleared -- He cast unnumbered shadows on the earth, On each one fixed his eyes, and each gave birth. Thus we were born; the birds of every land Are still his shadows -- think, and understand. If you had known this secret you would see The link between yourselves and Majesty; Do not reveal this truth, and God forfend That you mistake for God Himself God's friend. If you become that substance I propound, You are not God, though in God you are drowned; Those lost in Him are not the Deity -- This problem can be argued endlessly. You are His shadow, and cannot be moved By thoughts of life or death once this is proved. If He had kept His majesty concealed, No earthly shadow would have been revealed, And where that shadow was directly cast The race of birds sprang up before it passed. Your heart is not a mirror bright and clear If there the Simorgh's for does not appear; No one can bear His beauty face to face, And for this reason, of His perfect grace, He makes a mirror in our hearts -- look there To see Him, search your hearts with anxious care.
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posted by Firesong @ 12:00 AM   |
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