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#Post#: 17790--------------------------------------------------
Re: Anne Cline Poetry
DIR By: thetruth
Date: November 22, 2014, 5:30 pm
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--- Quote from: Anne Cline link ---
>
> Thank you! ♡ I'm so glad you enjoyed this poem! :D
>
--- End Quote ---
I enjoyed all of them and I'm not really a poem person. Most of
them are too unrealistic t, but yours are based more on
realistic scenarios that a person can relate to. They have great
imagery. You are very talented.
#Post#: 17796--------------------------------------------------
Re: Anne Cline Poetry
DIR By: Clay Death
Date: November 22, 2014, 10:58 pm
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I agree with lady TT.
there is no question that Anne Cline is amazing talented.
Camelot is very lucky to have her here with us.
#Post#: 17814--------------------------------------------------
Re: Anne Cline Poetry
DIR By: Clay Death
Date: November 24, 2014, 10:08 am
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HTML http://emotional-literacy-education.com/classic-books-online-a/rubai10.htm
This the complex work of Omar Khaymam that is translated by
Edward Fitzgerald.
It is fascinating and sublime poetry. It is quite long so I will
post it in several posts:
The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayam
by Edward Fitzgerald
Hypertext Meanings and Commentaries
from the Encyclopedia of the Self
by Mark Zimmerman
Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam
Rendered into English Verse by Edward Fitzgerald
Contents:
Introduction.
First Edition.
Fifth Edition.
Notes.
Introduction
Omar Khayyam,
The Astronomer-Poet of Persia.
Omar Khayyam was born at Naishapur in Khorassan in the latter
half of
our Eleventh, and died within the First Quarter of our Twelfth
Century. The Slender Story of his Life is curiously twined
about that
of two other very considerable Figures in their Time and
Country: one
of whom tells the Story of all Three. This was Nizam ul Mulk,
Vizier
to Alp Arslan the Son, and Malik Shah the Grandson, of Toghrul
Beg the
Tartar, who had wrested Persia from the feeble Successor of
Mahmud the
Great, and founded that Seljukian Dynasty which finally roused
Europe
into the Crusades. This Nizam ul Mulk, in his Wasiyat--or
Testament--which he wrote and left as a Memorial for future
Statesmen--relates the following, as quoted in the Calcutta
Review,
No. 59, from Mirkhond's History of the Assassins.
"'One of the greatest of the wise men of Khorassan was the Imam
Mowaffak of Naishapur, a man highly honored and
reverenced,--may God
rejoice his soul; his illustrious years exceeded eighty-five,
and it
was the universal belief that every boy who read the Koran or
studied
the traditions in his presence, would assuredly attain to honor
and
happiness. For this cause did my father send me from Tus to
Naishapur
with Abd-us-samad, the doctor of law, that I might employ
myself in
study and learning under the guidance of that illustrious
teacher.
Towards me he ever turned an eye of favor and kindness, and as
his
pupil I felt for him extreme affection and devotion, so that I
passed
four years in his service. When I first came there, I found two
other
pupils of mine own age newly arrived, Hakim Omar Khayyam, and
the ill-
fated Ben Sabbah. Both were endowed with sharpness of wit and
the
highest natural powers; and we three formed a close friendship
together. When the Imam rose from his lectures, they used to
join me,
and we repeated to each other the lessons we had heard. Now
Omar was
a native of Naishapur, while Hasan Ben Sabbah's father was one
Ali, a
man of austere life and practise, but heretical in his creed
and
doctrine. One day Hasan said to me and to Khayyam, "It is a
universal
belief that the pupils of the Imam Mowaffak will attain to
fortune.
Now, even if we all do not attain thereto, without doubt one of
us
will; what then shall be our mutual pledge and bond?" We
answered,
"Be it what you please." "Well," he said, "let us make a vow,
that to
whomsoever this fortune falls, he shall share it equally with
the
rest, and reserve no pre-eminence for himself." "Be it so," we
both
replied, and on those terms we mutually pledged our words.
Years
rolled on, and I went from Khorassan to Transoxiana, and
wandered to
Ghazni and Cabul; and when I returned, I was invested with
office, and
rose to be administrator of affairs during the Sultanate of
Sultan Alp
Arslan.'
"He goes on to state, that years passed by, and both his old
school-
friends found him out, and came and claimed a share in his good
fortune, according to the school-day vow. The Vizier was
generous and
kept his word. Hasan demanded a place in the government, which
the
Sultan granted at the Vizier's request; but discontented with a
gradual rise, he plunged into the maze of intrigue of an
oriental
court, and, failing in a base attempt to supplant his
benefactor, he
was disgraced and fell. After many mishaps and wanderings,
Hasan
became the head of the Persian sect of the Ismailians,--a party
of
fanatics who had long murmured in obscurity, but rose to an
evil
eminence under the guidance of his strong and evil will. In
A.D.
1090, he seized the castle of Alamut, in the province of
Rudbar, which
lies in the mountainous tract south of the Caspian Sea; and it
was
from this mountain home he obtained that evil celebrity among
the
Crusaders as the OLD MAN OF THE MOUNTAINS, and spread terror
through
the Mohammedan world; and it is yet disputed where the word
Assassin,
which they have left in the language of modern Europe as their
dark
memorial, is derived from the hashish, or opiate of hemp-leaves
(the
Indian bhang), with which they maddened themselves to the
sullen pitch
of oriental desperation, or from the name of the founder of the
dynasty, whom we have seen in his quiet collegiate days, at
Naishapur.
One of the countless victims of the Assassin's dagger was Nizam
ul
Mulk himself, the old school-boy friend.<1>
#Post#: 17815--------------------------------------------------
Re: Anne Cline Poetry
DIR By: Clay Death
Date: November 24, 2014, 10:11 am
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<1>Some of Omar's Rubaiyat warn us of the danger of Greatness,
the
instability of Fortune, and while advocating Charity to all
Men,
recommending us to be too intimate with none. Attar makes
Nizam-ul-
Mulk use the very words of his friend Omar [Rub. xxviii.],
"When
Nizam-ul-Mulk was in the Agony (of Death) he said, 'Oh God! I
am
passing away in the hand of the wind.'"
"Omar Khayyam also came to the Vizier to claim his share; but
not to
ask for title or office. 'The greatest boon you can confer on
me,' he
said, 'is to let me live in a corner under the shadow of your
fortune,
to spread wide the advantages of Science, and pray for your
long life
and prosperity.' The Vizier tells us, that when he found Omar
was
really sincere in his refusal, he pressed him no further, but
granted
him a yearly pension of 1200 mithkals of gold from the treasury
of
Naishapur.
"At Naishapur thus lived and died Omar Khayyam, 'busied,' adds
the
Vizier, 'in winning knowledge of every kind, and especially in
Astronomy, wherein he attained to a very high pre-eminence.
Under the
Sultanate of Malik Shah, he came to Merv, and obtained great
praise
for his proficiency in science, and the Sultan showered favors
upon
him.'
"When the Malik Shah determined to reform the calendar, Omar was
one
of the eight learned men employed to do it; the result was the
Jalali
era (so called from Jalal-ud-din, one of the king's names)--'a
computation of time,' says Gibbon, 'which surpasses the Julian,
and
approaches the accuracy of the Gregorian style.' He is also
the
author of some astronomical tables, entitled 'Ziji-Malikshahi,'
and
the French have lately republished and translated an Arabic
Treatise
of his on Algebra.
"His Takhallus or poetical name (Khayyam) signifies a
Tent-maker, and
he is said to have at one time exercised that trade, perhaps
before
Nizam-ul-Mulk's generosity raised him to independence. Many
Persian
poets similarly derive their names from their occupations; thus
we
have Attar, 'a druggist,' Assar, 'an oil presser,' etc.<2>
Omar
himself alludes to his name in the following whimsical lines:--
"'Khayyam, who stitched the tents of science,
Has fallen in grief's furnace and been suddenly burned;
The shears of Fate have cut the tent ropes of his life,
And the broker of Hope has sold him for nothing!'
#Post#: 17816--------------------------------------------------
Re: Anne Cline Poetry
DIR By: Clay Death
Date: November 24, 2014, 10:12 am
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<2>Though all these, like our Smiths, Archers, Millers,
Fletchers,
etc., may simply retain the Surname of an hereditary calling.
"We have only one more anecdote to give of his Life, and that
relates
to the close; it is told in the anonymous preface which is
sometimes
prefixed to his poems; it has been printed in the Persian in
the
Appendix to Hyde's Veterum Persarum Religio, p. 499; and
D'Herbelot
alludes to it in his Bibliotheque, under Khiam.<3>--
"'It is written in the chronicles of the ancients that this King
of
the Wise, Omar Khayyam, died at Naishapur in the year of the
Hegira,
517 (A.D. 1123); in science he was unrivaled,--the very paragon
of his
age. Khwajah Nizami of Samarcand, who was one of his pupils,
relates
the following story: "I often used to hold conversations with
my
teacher, Omar Khayyam, in a garden; and one day he said to me,
'My tomb shall be in a spot where the north wind may scatter
roses
over it.' I wondered at the words he spake, but I knew that
his were
no idle words.<4> Years after, when I chanced to revisit
Naishapur, I
went to his final resting-place, and lo! it was just outside a
garden,
and trees laden with fruit stretched their boughs over the
garden
wall, and dropped their flowers upon his tomb, so that the
stone was
hidden under them."'"
<3>"Philosophe Musulman qui a vecu en Odeur de Saintete dans
sa
Religion, vers la Fin du premier et le Commencement du second
Siecle," no part of which, except the "Philosophe," can apply
to our
Khayyam.
<4>The Rashness of the Words, according to D'Herbelot,
consisted in
being so opposed to those in the Koran: "No Man knows where
he shall
die."--This story of Omar reminds me of another so
naturally--and
when one remembers how wide of his humble mark the noble
sailor
aimed--so pathetically told by Captain Cook--not by Doctor
Hawkworth--in his Second Voyage (i. 374). When leaving
Ulietea,
"Oreo's last request was for me to return. When he saw he
could not
obtain that promise, he asked the name of my Marai
(burying-place).
As strange a question as this was, I hesitated not a moment
to tell
him 'Stepney'; the parish in which I live when in London. I
was
made to repeat it several times over till they could
pronounce it;
and then 'Stepney Marai no Toote' was echoed through an
hundred
mouths at once. I afterwards found the same question had been
put
to Mr. Forster by a man on shore; but he gave a different,
and
indeed more proper answer, by saying, 'No man who used the
sea could
say where he should be buried.'"
Thus far--without fear of Trespass--from the Calcutta Review.
The
writer of it, on reading in India this story of Omar's Grave,
was
reminded, he says, of Cicero's Account of finding Archimedes'
Tomb at
Syracuse, buried in grass and weeds. I think Thorwaldsen
desired to
have roses grow over him; a wish religiously fulfilled for him
to the
present day, I believe. However, to return to Omar.
Though the Sultan "shower'd Favors upon him," Omar's Epicurean
Audacity of Thought and Speech caused him to be regarded
askance in
his own Time and Country. He is said to have been especially
hated
and dreaded by the Sufis, whose Practise he ridiculed, and
whose Faith
amounts to little more than his own, when stript of the
Mysticism and
formal recognition of Islamism under which Omar would not hide.
Their
Poets, including Hafiz, who are (with the exception of
Firdausi) the
most considerable in Persia, borrowed largely, indeed, of
Omar's
material, but turning it to a mystical Use more convenient to
Themselves and the People they addressed; a People quite as
quick of
Doubt as of Belief; as keen of Bodily sense as of Intellectual;
and
delighting in a cloudy composition of both, in which they could
float
luxuriously between Heaven and Earth, and this World and the
Next, on
the wings of a poetical expression, that might serve
indifferently for
either. Omar was too honest of Heart as well of Head for this.
Having failed (however mistakenly) of finding any Providence
but
Destiny, and any World but This, he set about making the most
of it;
preferring rather to soothe the Soul through the Senses into
Acquiescence with Things as he saw them, than to perplex it
with vain
disquietude after what they might be. It has been seen,
however, that
his Worldly Ambition was not exorbitant; and he very likely
takes a
humorous or perverse pleasure in exalting the gratification of
Sense
above that of the Intellect, in which he must have taken great
delight, although it failed to answer the Questions in which
he, in
common with all men, was most vitally interested.
For whatever Reason, however, Omar as before said, has never
been
popular in his own Country, and therefore has been but scantily
transmitted abroad. The MSS. of his Poems, mutilated beyond the
average Casualties of Oriental Transcription, are so rare in
the East
as scarce to have reacht Westward at all, in spite of all the
acquisitions of Arms and Science. There is no copy at the India
House, none at the Bibliotheque Nationale of Paris. We know but
of
one in England: No. 140 of the Ouseley MSS. at the Bodleian,
written
at Shiraz, A.D. 1460. This contains but 158 Rubaiyat. One in
the
Asiatic Society's Library at Calcutta (of which we have a
Copy),
contains (and yet incomplete) 516, though swelled to that by
all kinds
of Repetition and Corruption. So Von Hammer speaks of his Copy
as
containing about 200, while Dr. Sprenger catalogues the Lucknow
MS. at
double that number.<5> The Scribes, too, of the Oxford and
Calcutta
MSS. seem to do their Work under a sort of Protest; each
beginning
with a Tetrastich (whether genuine or not), taken out of its
alphabetical order; the Oxford with one of Apology; the
Calcutta with
one of Expostulation, supposed (says a Notice prefixed to the
MS.)
to have arisen from a Dream, in which Omar's mother asked about
his
future fate. It may be rendered thus:--
"O Thou who burn'st in Heart for those who burn
In Hell, whose fires thyself shall feed in turn,
How long be crying, 'Mercy on them, God!'
Why, who art Thou to teach, and He to learn?"
The Bodleian Quatrain pleads Pantheism by way of Justification.
"If I myself upon a looser Creed
Have loosely strung the Jewel of Good deed,
Let this one thing for my Atonement plead:
That One for Two I never did misread."
<5>"Since this paper was written" (adds the Reviewer in a
note), "we
have met with a Copy of a very rare Edition, printed at
Calcutta in
1836. This contains 438 Tetrastichs, with an Appendix
containing 54
others not found in some MSS."
The Reviewer,<6> to whom I owe the Particulars of Omar's Life,
concludes his Review by comparing him with Lucretius, both as
to
natural Temper and Genius, and as acted upon by the
Circumstances in
which he lived. Both indeed were men of subtle, strong, and
cultivated Intellect, fine Imagination, and Hearts passionate
for
Truth and Justice; who justly revolted from their Country's
false
Religion, and false, or foolish, Devotion to it; but who fell
short of
replacing what they subverted by such better Hope as others,
with no
better Revelation to guide them, had yet made a Law to
themselves.
Lucretius indeed, with such material as Epicurus furnished,
satisfied
himself with the theory of a vast machine fortuitously
constructed,
and acting by a Law that implied no Legislator; and so
composing
himself into a Stoical rather than Epicurean severity of
Attitude, sat
down to contemplate the mechanical drama of the Universe which
he was
part Actor in; himself and all about him (as in his own sublime
description of the Roman Theater) discolored with the lurid
reflex of
the Curtain suspended between the Spectator and the Sun. Omar,
more
desperate, or more careless of any so complicated System as
resulted
in nothing but hopeless Necessity, flung his own Genius and
Learning
with a bitter or humorous jest into the general Ruin which
their
insufficient glimpses only served to reveal; and, pretending
sensual
pleasure, as the serious purpose of Life, only diverted himself
with
speculative problems of Deity, Destiny, Matter and Spirit, Good
and
Evil, and other such questions, easier to start than to run
down, and
the pursuit of which becomes a very weary sport at last!
#Post#: 17817--------------------------------------------------
Re: Anne Cline Poetry
DIR By: Clay Death
Date: November 24, 2014, 10:13 am
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<6>Professor Cowell.
With regard to the present Translation. The original Rubaiyat
(as,
missing an Arabic Guttural, these Tetrastichs are more
musically
called) are independent Stanzas, consisting each of four Lines
of
equal, though varied, Prosody; sometimes all rhyming, but
oftener (as
here imitated) the third line a blank. Somewhat as in the Greek
Alcaic, where the penultimate line seems to lift and suspend
the Wave
that falls over in the last. As usual with such kind of
Oriental
Verse, the Rubaiyat follow one another according to Alphabetic
Rhyme--a strange succession of Grave and Gay. Those here
selected are
strung into something of an Eclogue, with perhaps a less than
equal
proportion of the "Drink and make-merry," which (genuine or
not)
recurs over-frequently in the Original. Either way, the Result
is sad
enough: saddest perhaps when most ostentatiously merry: more
apt to
move Sorrow than Anger toward the old Tentmaker, who, after
vainly
endeavoring to unshackle his Steps from Destiny, and to catch
some
authentic Glimpse of TO-MORROW, fell back upon TO-DAY (which
has
outlasted so many To-morrows!) as the only Ground he had got to
stand
upon, however momentarily slipping from under his Feet.
[From the Third Edition.]
While the second Edition of this version of Omar was preparing,
Monsieur Nicolas, French Consul at Resht, published a very
careful and
very good Edition of the Text, from a lithograph copy at
Teheran,
comprising 464 Rubaiyat, with translation and notes of his own.
Mons. Nicolas, whose Edition has reminded me of several things,
and
instructed me in others, does not consider Omar to be the
material
Epicurean that I have literally taken him for, but a Mystic,
shadowing
the Deity under the figure of Wine, Wine-bearer, &c., as Hafiz
is
supposed to do; in short, a Sufi Poet like Hafiz and the rest.
I cannot see reason to alter my opinion, formed as it was more
than a
dozen years ago when Omar was first shown me by one to whom I
am
indebted for all I know of Oriental, and very much of other,
literature. He admired Omar's Genius so much, that he would
gladly
have adopted any such Interpretation of his meaning as Mons.
Nicolas'
if he could.<7> That he could not, appears by his Paper in the
Calcutta Review already so largely quoted; in which he argues
from the
Poems themselves, as well as from what records remain of the
Poet's
Life.
<7> Perhaps would have edited the Poems himself some years
ago. He
may now as little approve of my Version on one side, as of
Mons.
Nicolas' Theory on the other.
And if more were needed to disprove Mons. Nicolas' Theory, there
is
the Biographical Notice which he himself has drawn up in direct
contradiction to the Interpretation of the Poems given in his
Notes.
(See pp. 13-14 of his Preface.) Indeed I hardly knew poor Omar
was so
far gone till his Apologist informed me. For here we see that,
whatever were the Wine that Hafiz drank and sang, the veritable
Juice
of the Grape it was which Omar used, not only when carousing
with his
friends, but (says Mons. Nicolas) in order to excite himself to
that
pitch of Devotion which others reached by cries and
"hurlemens." And
yet, whenever Wine, Wine-bearer, &c., occur in the Text--which
is
often enough--Mons. Nicolas carefully annotates "Dieu," "La
Divinite,"
&c.: so carefully indeed that one is tempted to think that he
was
indoctrinated by the Sufi with whom he read the Poems. (Note to
Rub.
ii. p. 8.) A Persian would naturally wish to vindicate a
distinguished Countryman; and a Sufi to enroll him in his own
sect,
which already comprises all the chief Poets of Persia.
What historical Authority has Mons. Nicolas to show that Omar
gave
himself up "avec passion a l'etude de la philosophie des
Soufis"?
(Preface, p. xiii.) The Doctrines of Pantheism, Materialism,
Necessity, &c., were not peculiar to the Sufi; nor to Lucretius
before
them; nor to Epicurus before him; probably the very original
Irreligion of Thinking men from the first; and very likely to
be the
spontaneous growth of a Philosopher living in an Age of social
and
political barbarism, under shadow of one of the Two and Seventy
Religions supposed to divide the world. Von Hammer (according
to
Sprenger's Oriental Catalogue) speaks of Omar as "a
Free-thinker, and
a great opponent of Sufism;" perhaps because, while holding
much of
their Doctrine, he would not pretend to any inconsistent
severity of
morals. Sir W. Ouseley has written a note to something of the
same
effect on the fly-leaf of the Bodleian MS. And in two Rubaiyat
of
Mons. Nicolas' own Edition Suf and Sufi are both disparagingly
named.
No doubt many of these Quatrains seem unaccountable unless
mystically
interpreted; but many more as unaccountable unless literally.
Were
the Wine spiritual, for instance, how wash the Body with it
when dead?
Why make cups of the dead clay to be filled with--"La
Divinite," by
some succeeding Mystic? Mons. Nicolas himself is puzzled by
some
"bizarres" and "trop Orientales" allusions and images--"d'une
sensualite quelquefois revoltante" indeed--which "les
convenances" do
not permit him to translate; but still which the reader cannot
but
refer to "La Divinite."<8> No doubt also many of the Quatrains
in the
Teheran, as in the Calcutta, Copies, are spurious; such
Rubaiyat being
the common form of Epigram in Persia. But this, at best, tells
as
much one way as another; nay, the Sufi, who may be considered
the
Scholar and Man of Letters in Persia, would be far more likely
than
the careless Epicure to interpolate what favours his own view
of the
Poet. I observed that very few of the more mystical Quatrains
are in
the Bodleian MS., which must be one of the oldest, as dated at
Shiraz,
A.H. 865, A.D. 1460. And this, I think, especially
distinguishes Omar
(I cannot help calling him by his--no, not Christian--familiar
name)
from all other Persian Poets: That, whereas with them the Poet
is lost
in his Song, the Man in Allegory and Abstraction; we seem to
have the
Man--the Bon-homme--Omar himself, with all his Humours and
Passions,
as frankly before us as if we were really at Table with him,
after the
Wine had gone round.
<8> A note to Quatrain 234 admits that, however clear the
mystical
meaning of such Images must be to Europeans, they are not
quoted
without "rougissant" even by laymen in Persia--"Quant aux
termes de
tendresse qui commencent ce quatrain, comme tant d'autres
dans ce
recueil, nos lecteurs, habitues maintenant a 1'etrangete des
expressions si souvent employees par Kheyam pour rendre ses
pensees
sur l'amour divin, et a la singularite des images trop
orientales,
d'une sensualite quelquefois revoltante, n'auront pas de
peine a se
persuader qu'il s'agit de la Divinite, bien que cette
conviction
soit vivement discutee par les moullahs musulmans, et meme
par
beaucoup de laiques, qui rougissent veritablement d'une
pareille
licence de leur compatriote a 1'egard des choses
spirituelles."
I must say that I, for one, never wholly believed in the
Mysticism of
Hafiz. It does not appear there was any danger in holding and
singing
Sufi Pantheism, so long as the Poet made his Salaam to Mohammed
at the
beginning and end of his Song. Under such conditions
Jelaluddin,
Jami, Attar, and others sang; using Wine and Beauty indeed as
Images
to illustrate, not as a Mask to hide, the Divinity they were
celebrating. Perhaps some Allegory less liable to mistake or
abuse
had been better among so inflammable a People: much more so
when, as
some think with Hafiz and Omar, the abstract is not only
likened to,
but identified with, the sensual Image; hazardous, if not to
the
Devotee himself, yet to his weaker Brethren; and worse for the
Profane
in proportion as the Devotion of the Initiated grew warmer. And
all
for what? To be tantalized with Images of sensual enjoyment
which
must be renounced if one would approximate a God, who according
to the
Doctrine, is Sensual Matter as well as Spirit, and into whose
Universe
one expects unconsciously to merge after Death, without hope of
any
posthumous Beatitude in another world to compensate for all
one's self-
denial in this. Lucretius' blind Divinity certainly merited,
and
probably got, as much self-sacrifice as this of the Sufi; and
the
burden of Omar's Song--if not "Let us eat"--is assuredly--"Let
us
drink, for To-morrow we die!" And if Hafiz meant quite
otherwise by a
similar language, he surely miscalculated when he devoted his
Life and
Genius to so equivocal a Psalmody as, from his Day to this, has
been
said and sung by any rather than spiritual Worshippers.
However, as there is some traditional presumption, and certainly
the
opinion of some learned men, in favour of Omar's being a
Sufi--and
even something of a Saint--those who please may so interpret
his Wine
and Cup-bearer. On the other hand, as there is far more
historical
certainty of his being a Philosopher, of scientific Insight and
Ability far beyond that of the Age and Country he lived in; of
such
moderate worldly Ambition as becomes a Philosopher, and such
moderate
wants as rarely satisfy a Debauchee; other readers may be
content to
believe with me that, while the Wine Omar celebrates is simply
the
Juice of the Grape, he bragg'd more than he drank of it, in
very
defiance perhaps of that Spiritual Wine which left its Votaries
sunk
in Hypocrisy or Disgust.
#Post#: 17818--------------------------------------------------
Re: Anne Cline Poetry
DIR By: Clay Death
Date: November 24, 2014, 10:14 am
---------------------------------------------------------
Edward J. Fitzgerald
First Edition
I.
Awake! for Morning in the Bowl of Night
Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight:
And Lo! the Hunter of the East has caught
The Sultan's Turret in a Noose of Light.
II.
Dreaming when Dawn's Left Hand was in the Sky
I heard a Voice within the Tavern cry,
"Awake, my Little ones, and fill the Cup
Before Life's Liquor in its Cup be dry."
III.
And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before
The Tavern shouted--"Open then the Door.
You know how little while we have to stay,
And, once departed, may return no more."
IV.
Now the New Year reviving old Desires,
The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,
Where the WHITE HAND OF MOSES on the Bough
Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires.
V.
Iram indeed is gone with all its Rose,
And Jamshyd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows;
But still the Vine her ancient Ruby yields,
And still a Garden by the Water blows.
VI.
And David's Lips are lock't; but in divine
High piping Pelevi, with "Wine! Wine! Wine!
Red Wine!"--the Nightingale cries to the Rose
That yellow Cheek of hers to'incarnadine.
VII.
Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring
The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To fly--and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.
VIII.
And look--a thousand Blossoms with the Day
Woke--and a thousand scatter'd into Clay:
And this first Summer Month that brings the Rose
Shall take Jamshyd and Kaikobad away.
IX.
But come with old Khayyam, and leave the Lot
Of Kaikobad and Kaikhosru forgot:
Let Rustum lay about him as he will,
Or Hatim Tai cry Supper--heed them not.
X.
With me along some Strip of Herbage strown
That just divides the desert from the sown,
Where name of Slave and Sultan scarce is known,
And pity Sultan Mahmud on his Throne.
XI.
Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,
A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse--and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness--
And Wilderness is Paradise enow.
XII.
"How sweet is mortal Sovranty!"--think some:
Others--"How blest the Paradise to come!"
Ah, take the Cash in hand and waive the Rest;
Oh, the brave Music of a distant Drum!
XIII.
Look to the Rose that blows about us--"Lo,
Laughing," she says, "into the World I blow:
At once the silken Tassel of my Purse
Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw."
XIV.
The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon
Turns Ashes--or it prospers; and anon,
Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face
Lighting a little Hour or two--is gone.
XV.
And those who husbanded the Golden Grain,
And those who flung it to the Winds like Rain,
Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn'd
As, buried once, Men want dug up again.
XVI.
Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai
Whose Doorways are alternate Night and Day,
How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp
Abode his Hour or two, and went his way.
XVII.
They say the Lion and the Lizard keep
The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep:
And Bahram, that great Hunter--the Wild Ass
Stamps o'er his Head, and he lies fast asleep.
XVIII.
I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;
That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropt in its Lap from some once lovely Head.
XIX.
And this delightful Herb whose tender Green
Fledges the River's Lip on which we lean--
Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows
From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!
XX.
Ah! my Beloved, fill the Cup that clears
TO-DAY of past Regrets and future Fears-
To-morrow?--Why, To-morrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n Thousand Years.
XXI.
Lo! some we loved, the loveliest and the best
That Time and Fate of all their Vintage prest,
Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,
And one by one crept silently to Rest.
XXII.
And we, that now make merry in the Room
They left, and Summer dresses in new Bloom,
Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth
Descend, ourselves to make a Couch--for whom?
XXIII.
Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,
Before we too into the Dust Descend;
Dust into Dust, and under Dust, to lie,
Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer and--sans End!
XXIV.
Alike for those who for TO-DAY prepare,
And those that after a TO-MORROW stare,
A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries
"Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There."
XXV.
Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss'd
Of the Two Worlds so learnedly, are thrust
Like foolish Prophets forth; their Words to Scorn
Are scatter'd, and their Mouths are stopt with Dust.
XXVI.
Oh, come with old Khayyam, and leave the Wise
To talk; one thing is certain, that Life flies;
One thing is certain, and the Rest is Lies;
The Flower that once has blown for ever dies.
XXVII.
Myself when young did eagerly frequent
Doctor and Saint, and heard great Argument
About it and about: but evermore
Came out by the same Door as in I went.
XXVIII.
With them the Seed of Wisdom did I sow,
And with my own hand labour'd it to grow:
And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd--
"I came like Water, and like Wind I go."
XXIX.
Into this Universe, and why not knowing,
Nor whence, like Water willy-nilly flowing:
And out of it, as Wind along the Waste,
I know not whither, willy-nilly blowing.
XXX.
What, without asking, hither hurried whence?
And, without asking, whither hurried hence!
Another and another Cup to drown
The Memory of this Impertinence!
XXXI.
Up from Earth's Centre through the seventh Gate
I rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate,
And many Knots unravel'd by the Road;
But not the Knot of Human Death and Fate.
XXXII.
There was a Door to which I found no Key:
There was a Veil past which I could not see:
Some little Talk awhile of ME and THEE
There seemed--and then no more of THEE and ME.
#Post#: 17819--------------------------------------------------
Re: Anne Cline Poetry
DIR By: Clay Death
Date: November 24, 2014, 10:15 am
---------------------------------------------------------
XXXIII.
Then to the rolling Heav'n itself I cried,
Asking, "What Lamp had Destiny to guide
Her little Children stumbling in the Dark?"
And--"A blind understanding!" Heav'n replied.
XXXIV.
Then to this earthen Bowl did I adjourn
My Lip the secret Well of Life to learn:
And Lip to Lip it murmur'd--"While you live,
Drink!--for once dead you never shall return."
XXXV.
I think the Vessel, that with fugitive
Articulation answer'd, once did live,
And merry-make; and the cold Lip I kiss'd
How many Kisses might it take--and give.
XXXVI.
For in the Market-place, one Dusk of Day,
I watch'd the Potter thumping his wet Clay:
And with its all obliterated Tongue
It murmur'd--"Gently, Brother, gently, pray!"
XXXVII.
Ah, fill the Cup:--what boots it to repeat
How Time is slipping underneath our Feet:
Unborn TO-MORROW and dead YESTERDAY,
Why fret about them if TO-DAY be sweet!
XXXVIII.
One Moment in Annihilation's Waste,
One moment, of the Well of Life to taste--
The Stars are setting, and the Caravan
Starts for the dawn of Nothing--Oh, make haste!
XXXIX.
How long, how long, in infinite Pursuit
Of This and That endeavour and dispute?
Better be merry with the fruitful Grape
Than sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit.
XL.
You know, my Friends, how long since in my House
For a new Marriage I did make Carouse:
Divorced old barren Reason from my Bed,
And took the Daughter of the Vine to Spouse.
XLI.
For "IS" and "IS-NOT" though with Rule and Line,
And, "UP-AND-DOWN" without, I could define,
I yet in all I only cared to know,
Was never deep in anything but--Wine.
XLII.
And lately, by the Tavern Door agape,
Came stealing through the Dusk an Angel Shape,
Bearing a vessel on his Shoulder; and
He bid me taste of it; and 'twas--the Grape!
XLIII.
The Grape that can with Logic absolute
The Two-and-Seventy jarring Sects confute:
The subtle Alchemist that in a Trice
Life's leaden Metal into Gold transmute.
XLIV.
The mighty Mahmud, the victorious Lord,
That all the misbelieving and black Horde
Of Fears and Sorrows that infest the Soul
Scatters and slays with his enchanted Sword.
XLV.
But leave the Wise to wrangle, and with me
The Quarrel of the Universe let be:
And, in some corner of the Hubbub coucht,
Make Game of that which makes as much of Thee.
XLVI.
For in and out, above, about, below,
'Tis nothing but a Magic Shadow-show,
Play'd in a Box whose Candle is the Sun,
Round which we Phantom Figures come and go.
XLVII.
And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press,
End in the Nothing all Things end in--Yes-
Then fancy while Thou art, Thou art but what
Thou shalt be--Nothing--Thou shalt not be less.
XLVIII.
While the Rose blows along the River Brink,
With old Khayyam the Ruby Vintage drink:
And when the Angel with his darker Draught
Draws up to thee--take that, and do not shrink.
XLVIX.
'Tis all a Chequer-board of Nights and Days
Where Destiny with Men for Pieces plays:
Hither and thither moves, and mates, and slays,
And one by one back in the Closet lays.
L.
The Ball no Question makes of Ayes and Noes,
But Right or Left as strikes the Player goes;
And He that toss'd Thee down into the Field,
He knows about it all--HE knows--HE knows!
LI.
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.
LII.
And that inverted Bowl we call The Sky,
Whereunder crawling coop't we live and die,
Lift not thy hands to IT for help--for It
Rolls impotently on as Thou or I.
LIII.
With Earth's first Clay They did the Last Man's knead,
And then of the Last Harvest sow'd the Seed:
Yea, the first Morning of Creation wrote
What the Last Dawn of Reckoning shall read.
LIV.
I tell Thee this--When, starting from the Goal,
Over the shoulders of the flaming Foal
Of Heav'n Parwin and Mushtari they flung,
In my predestin'd Plot of Dust and Soul
LV.
The Vine had struck a Fibre; which about
It clings my Being--let the Sufi flout;
Of my Base Metal may be filed a Key,
That shall unlock the Door he howls without.
LVI.
And this I know: whether the one True Light,
Kindle to Love, or Wrath consume me quite,
One Glimpse of It within the Tavern caught
Better than in the Temple lost outright.
LVII.
Oh Thou who didst with Pitfall and with Gin
Beset the Road I was to wander in,
Thou wilt not with Predestination round
Enmesh me, and impute my Fall to Sin?
LVIII.
Oh Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst make,
And who with Eden didst devise the Snake;
For all the Sin wherewith the Face of Man
Is blacken'd, Man's Forgiveness give--and take!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
KUZA--NAMA. ("Book of Pots")
LIX.
Listen again. One Evening at the Close
Of Ramazan, ere the better Moon arose,
In that old Potter's Shop I stood alone
With the clay Population round in Rows.
LX.
And strange to tell, among that Earthen Lot
Some could articulate, while others not:
And suddenly one more impatient cried--
"Who is the Potter, pray, and who the Pot?"
LXI.
Then said another--"Surely not in vain
My substance from the common Earth was ta'en,
That He who subtly wrought me into Shape
Should stamp me back to common Earth again."
LXII.
Another said--"Why, ne'er a peevish Boy
Would break the Bowl from which he drank in Joy;
Shall He that made the Vessel in pure Love
And Fansy, in an after Rage destroy!"
LXIII.
None answer'd this; but after Silence spake
A Vessel of a more ungainly Make:
"They sneer at me for leaning all awry;
What? did the Hand then of the Potter shake?"
LXIV.
Said one--"Folks of a surly Tapster tell,
And daub his Visage with the Smoke of Hell;
They talk of some strict Testing of us--Pish!
He's a Good Fellow, and 'twill all be well."
LXV.
Then said another with a long-drawn Sigh,
"My Clay with long oblivion is gone dry:
But, fill me with the old familiar Juice,
Methinks I might recover by-and-bye!"
LXVI.
So, while the Vessels one by one were speaking,
One spied the little Crescent all were seeking:
And then they jogg'd each other, "Brother! Brother!
Hark to the Porter's Shoulder-knot a-creaking!"
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
LXVII.
Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide,
And wash my Body whence the life has died,
And in a Windingsheet of Vineleaf wrapt,
So bury me by some sweet Gardenside.
LXVIII.
That ev'n my buried Ashes such a Snare
Of Perfume shall fling up into the Air,
As not a True Believer passing by
But shall be overtaken unaware.
LXIX.
Indeed, the Idols I have loved so long
Have done my Credit in Men's Eye much wrong:
Have drown'd my Honour in a shallow Cup,
And sold my Reputation for a Song.
LXX.
Indeed, indeed, Repentance oft before
I swore--but was I sober when I swore?
And then and then came Spring, and Rose-in-hand
My thread-bare Penitence a-pieces tore.
LXXI.
And much as Wine has play'd the Infidel,
And robb'd me of my Robe of Honour--well,
I often wonder what the Vintners buy
One half so precious as the Goods they sell.
LXXII.
Alas, that Spring should vanish with the Rose!
That Youth's sweet-scented Manuscript should close!
The Nightingale that in the Branches sang,
Ah, whence, and whither flown again, who knows!
LXXIII.
Ah, Love! could thou and I with Fate conspire
To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,
Would not we shatter it to bits--and then
Re-mould it nearer to the Heart's Desire!
#Post#: 17820--------------------------------------------------
Re: Anne Cline Poetry
DIR By: Clay Death
Date: November 24, 2014, 10:17 am
---------------------------------------------------------
LXXIV.
Ah, Moon of my Delight who know'st no wane,
The Moon of Heav'n is rising once again:
How oft hereafter rising shall she look
Through this same Garden after me--in vain!
LXXV.
And when Thyself with shining Foot shall pass
Among the Guests Star-scatter'd on The Grass,
And in Thy joyous Errand reach the Spot
Where I made one--turn down an empty Glass!
TAMAM SHUD.
Fifth Edition
I.
WAKE! For the Sun, who scatter'd into flight
The Stars before him from the Field of Night,
Drives Night along with them from Heav'n, and strikes
The Sultan's Turret with a Shaft of Light.
II.
Before the phantom of False morning died,
Methought a Voice within the Tavern cried,
"When all the Temple is prepared within,
"Why nods the drowsy Worshiper outside?"
III.
And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before
The Tavern shouted--"Open then the Door!
"You know how little while we have to stay,
And, once departed, may return no more."
IV.
Now the New Year reviving old Desires,
The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,
Where the WHITE HAND OF MOSES on the Bough
Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires.
V.
Iram indeed is gone with all his Rose,
And Jamshyd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows;
But still a Ruby kindles in the Vine,
And many a Garden by the Water blows.
VI.
And David's lips are lockt; but in divine
High-piping Pehlevi, with "Wine! Wine! Wine!
"Red Wine!"--the Nightingale cries to the Rose
That sallow cheek of hers to' incarnadine.
VII.
Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring
Your Winter garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To flutter--and the Bird is on the Wing.
VIII.
Whether at Naishapur or Babylon,
Whether the Cup with sweet or bitter run,
The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop,
The Leaves of Life keep falling one by one.
IX.
Each Morn a thousand Roses brings, you say:
Yes, but where leaves the Rose of Yesterday?
And this first Summer month that brings the Rose
Shall take Jamshyd and Kaikobad away.
X.
Well, let it take them! What have we to do
With Kaikobad the Great, or Kaikhosru?
Let Zal and Rustum bluster as they will,
Or Hatim call to Supper--heed not you.
XI.
With me along the strip of Herbage strown
That just divides the desert from the sown,
Where name of Slave and Sultan is forgot--
And Peace to Mahmud on his golden Throne!
XII.
A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread--and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness--
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!
XIII.
Some for the Glories of This World; and some
Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come;
Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go,
Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!
XIV.
Look to the blowing Rose about us--"Lo,
Laughing," she says, "into the world I blow,
At once the silken tassel of my Purse
Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw."
XV.
And those who husbanded the Golden grain,
And those who flung it to the winds like Rain,
Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn'd
As, buried once, Men want dug up again.
XVI.
The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon
Turns Ashes--or it prospers; and anon,
Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face,
Lighting a little hour or two--is gone.
XVII.
Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai
Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day,
How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp
Abode his destined Hour, and went his way.
XVIII.
They say the Lion and the Lizard keep
The courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep:
And Bahram, that great Hunter--the Wild Ass
Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep.
XIX.
I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;
That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.
XX.
And this reviving Herb whose tender Green
Fledges the River-Lip on which we lean--
Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows
From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!
XXI.
Ah, my Beloved, fill the Cup that clears
TO-DAY of past Regrets and future Fears:
To-morrow--Why, To-morrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n thousand Years.
XXII.
For some we loved, the loveliest and the best
That from his Vintage rolling Time hath prest,
Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,
And one by one crept silently to rest.
XXIII.
And we, that now make merry in the Room
They left, and Summer dresses in new bloom,
Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth
Descend--ourselves to make a Couch--for whom?
XXIV.
Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,
Before we too into the Dust descend;
Dust into Dust, and under Dust to lie,
Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and--sans End!
XXV.
Alike for those who for TO-DAY prepare,
And those that after some TO-MORROW stare,
A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries,
"Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There."
XXVI.
Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss'd
Of the Two Worlds so wisely--they are thrust
Like foolish Prophets forth; their Words to Scorn
Are scatter'd, and their Mouths are stopt with Dust.
XXVII.
Myself when young did eagerly frequent
Doctor and Saint, and heard great argument
About it and about: but evermore
Came out by the same door where in I went.
XXVIII.
With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow,
And with mine own hand wrought to make it grow;
And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd--
"I came like Water, and like Wind I go."
XXIX.
Into this Universe, and Why not knowing
Nor Whence, like Water willy-nilly flowing;
And out of it, as Wind along the Waste,
I know not Whither, willy-nilly blowing.
XXX.
What, without asking, hither hurried Whence?
And, without asking, Whither hurried hence!
Oh, many a Cup of this forbidden Wine
Must drown the memory of that insolence!
XXXI.
Up from Earth's Center through the Seventh Gate
I rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate,
And many a Knot unravel'd by the Road;
But not the Master-knot of Human Fate.
XXXII.
There was the Door to which I found no Key;
There was the Veil through which I might not see:
Some little talk awhile of ME and THEE
There was--and then no more of THEE and ME.
XXXIII.
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.
XXXIV.
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 WITHIN THEE BLIND!"
XXXV.
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."
XXXVI.
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!
XXXVII.
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!"
XXXVIII.
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 mold?
XXXIX.
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.
XL.
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--like an empty Cup.
XLI.
Perplext no more with Human or Divine,
To-morrow's tangle to the winds resign,
And lose your fingers in the tresses of
The Cypress-slender Minister of Wine.
XLII.
And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press,
End in what All begins and ends in--Yes;
Think then you are TO-DAY what YESTERDAY
You were--TO-MORROW you shall not be less.
XLIII.
So when that Angel of the darker Drink
At last shall find you by the river-brink,
And, offering his Cup, invite your Soul
Forth to your Lips to quaff--you shall not shrink.
XLIV.
Why, if the Soul can fling the Dust aside,
And naked on the Air of Heaven ride,
Were't not a Shame--were't not a Shame for him
In this clay carcass crippled to abide?
XLV.
'Tis but a Tent where takes his one day's rest
A Sultan to the realm of Death addrest;
The Sultan rises, and the dark Ferrash
Strikes, and prepares it for another Guest.
XLVI.
And fear not lest Existence closing your
Account, and mine, should know the like no more;
The Eternal Saki from that Bowl has pour'd
Millions of Bubbles like us, and will pour.
XLVII.
When You and I behind the Veil are past,
Oh, but the long, long while the World shall last,
Which of our Coming and Departure heeds
As the Sea's self should heed a pebble-cast.
XLVIII.
A Moment's Halt--a momentary taste
Of BEING from the Well amid the Waste--
And Lo!--the phantom Caravan has reach'd
The NOTHING it set out from--Oh, make haste!
XLIX.
Would you that spangle of Existence spend
About THE SECRET--quick about it, Friend!
A Hair perhaps divides the False from True--
And upon what, prithee, may life depend?
L.
A Hair perhaps divides the False and True;
Yes; and a single Alif were the clue--
Could you but find it--to the Treasure-house,
And peradventure to THE MASTER too;
LI.
Whose secret Presence through Creation's veins
Running Quicksilver-like eludes your pains;
Taking all shapes from Mah to Mahi and
They change and perish all--but He remains;
LII.
A moment guessed--then back behind the Fold
Immerst of Darkness round the Drama roll'd
Which, for the Pastime of Eternity,
He doth Himself contrive, enact, behold.
LIII.
But if in vain, down on the stubborn floor
Of Earth, and up to Heav'n's unopening Door,
You gaze TO-DAY, while You are You--how then
TO-MORROW, when You shall be You no more?
LIV.
Waste not your Hour, nor in the vain pursuit
Of This and That endeavor and dispute;
Better be jocund with the fruitful Grape
Than sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit.
LV.
You know, my Friends, with what a brave Carouse
I made a Second Marriage in my house;
Divorced old barren Reason from my Bed,
And took the Daughter of the Vine to Spouse.
LVI.
For "Is" and "Is-not" though with Rule and Line
And "UP-AND-DOWN" by Logic I define,
Of all that one should care to fathom, I
was never deep in anything but--Wine.
LVII.
Ah, by my Computations, People say,
Reduce the Year to better reckoning?--Nay,
'Twas only striking from the Calendar
Unborn To-morrow and dead Yesterday.
LVIII.
And lately, by the Tavern Door agape,
Came shining through the Dusk an Angel Shape
Bearing a Vessel on his Shoulder; and
He bid me taste of it; and 'twas--the Grape!
LIX.
The Grape that can with Logic absolute
The Two-and-Seventy jarring Sects confute:
The sovereign Alchemist that in a trice
Life's leaden metal into Gold transmute;
LX.
The mighty Mahmud, Allah-breathing Lord,
That all the misbelieving and black Horde
Of Fears and Sorrows that infest the Soul
Scatters before him with his whirlwind Sword.
#Post#: 17821--------------------------------------------------
Re: Anne Cline Poetry
DIR By: Clay Death
Date: November 24, 2014, 10:18 am
---------------------------------------------------------
LXI.
Why, be this Juice the growth of God, who dare
Blaspheme the twisted tendril as a Snare?
A Blessing, we should use it, should we not?
And if a Curse--why, then, Who set it there?
LXII.
I must abjure the Balm of Life, I must,
Scared by some After-reckoning ta'en on trust,
Or lured with Hope of some Diviner Drink,
To fill the Cup--when crumbled into Dust!
LXIII.
Of threats of Hell and Hopes of Paradise!
One thing at least is certain--This Life flies;
One thing is certain and the rest is Lies;
The Flower that once has blown for ever dies.
LXIV.
Strange, is it not? that of the myriads who
Before us pass'd the door of Darkness through,
Not one returns to tell us of the Road,
Which to discover we must travel too.
LXV.
The Revelations of Devout and Learn'd
Who rose before us, and as Prophets burn'd,
Are all but Stories, which, awoke from Sleep
They told their comrades, and to Sleep return'd.
LXVI.
I sent my Soul through the Invisible,
Some letter of that After-life to spell:
And by and by my Soul return'd to me,
And answer'd "I Myself am Heav'n and Hell:"
LXVII.
Heav'n but the Vision of fulfill'd Desire,
And Hell the Shadow from a Soul on fire,
Cast on the Darkness into which Ourselves,
So late emerged from, shall so soon expire.
LXVIII.
We are no other than a moving row
Of Magic Shadow-shapes that come and go
Round with the Sun-illumined Lantern held
In Midnight by the Master of the Show;
LXIX.
But helpless Pieces of the Game He plays
Upon this Chequer-board of Nights and Days;
Hither and thither moves, and checks, and slays,
And one by one back in the Closet lays.
LXX.
The Ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes,
But Here or There as strikes the Player goes;
And He that toss'd you down into the Field,
He knows about it all--HE knows--HE knows!
LXXI.
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.
LXXII.
And that inverted Bowl they call the Sky,
Whereunder crawling coop'd we live and die,
Lift not your hands to It for help--for It
As impotently moves as you or I.
LXXIII.
With Earth's first Clay They did the Last Man knead,
And there of the Last Harvest sow'd the Seed:
And the first Morning of Creation wrote
What the Last Dawn of Reckoning shall read.
LXXIV.
YESTERDAY This Day's Madness did prepare;
TO-MORROW's Silence, Triumph, or Despair:
Drink! for you not know whence you came, nor why:
Drink! for you know not why you go, nor where.
LXXV.
I tell you this--When, started from the Goal,
Over the flaming shoulders of the Foal
Of Heav'n Parwin and Mushtari they flung,
In my predestined Plot of Dust and Soul.
LXXVI.
The Vine had struck a fiber: which about
It clings my Being--let the Dervish flout;
Of my Base metal may be filed a Key
That shall unlock the Door he howls without.
LXXVII.
And this I know: whether the one True Light
Kindle to Love, or Wrath consume me quite,
One Flash of It within the Tavern caught
Better than in the Temple lost outright.
LXXVIII.
What! out of senseless Nothing to provoke
A conscious Something to resent the yoke
Of unpermitted Pleasure, under pain
Of Everlasting Penalties, if broke!
LXXIX.
What! from his helpless Creature be repaid
Pure Gold for what he lent him dross-allay'd--
Sue for a Debt he never did contract,
And cannot answer--Oh the sorry trade!
LXXX.
Oh Thou, who didst with pitfall and with gin
Beset the Road I was to wander in,
Thou wilt not with Predestined Evil round
Enmesh, and then impute my Fall to Sin!
LXXXI.
Oh Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst make,
And ev'n with Paradise devise the Snake:
For all the Sin wherewith the Face of Man
Is blacken'd--Man's forgiveness give--and take!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
LXXXII.
As under cover of departing Day
Slunk hunger-stricken Ramazan away,
Once more within the Potter's house alone
I stood, surrounded by the Shapes of Clay.
LXXXIII.
Shapes of all Sorts and Sizes, great and small,
That stood along the floor and by the wall;
And some loquacious Vessels were; and some
Listen'd perhaps, but never talk'd at all.
LXXXIV.
Said one among them--"Surely not in vain
My substance of the common Earth was ta'en
And to this Figure molded, to be broke,
Or trampled back to shapeless Earth again."
LXXXV.
Then said a Second--"Ne'er a peevish Boy
Would break the Bowl from which he drank in joy;
And He that with his hand the Vessel made
Will surely not in after Wrath destroy."
LXXXVI.
After a momentary silence spake
Some Vessel of a more ungainly Make;
"They sneer at me for leaning all awry:
What! did the Hand then of the Potter shake?"
LXXXVII.
Whereat some one of the loquacious Lot--
I think a Sufi pipkin--waxing hot--
"All this of Pot and Potter--Tell me then,
Who is the Potter, pray, and who the Pot?"
LXXXVIII.
"Why," said another, "Some there are who tell
Of one who threatens he will toss to Hell
The luckless Pots he marr'd in making--Pish!
He's a Good Fellow, and 'twill all be well."
LXXXIX.
"Well," murmured one, "Let whoso make or buy,
My Clay with long Oblivion is gone dry:
But fill me with the old familiar Juice,
Methinks I might recover by and by."
XC.
So while the Vessels one by one were speaking,
The little Moon look'd in that all were seeking:
And then they jogg'd each other, "Brother! Brother!
Now for the Porter's shoulders' knot a-creaking!"
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
XCI.
Ah, with the Grape my fading life provide,
And wash the Body whence the Life has died,
And lay me, shrouded in the living Leaf,
By some not unfrequented Garden-side.
XCII.
That ev'n buried Ashes such a snare
Of Vintage shall fling up into the Air
As not a True-believer passing by
But shall be overtaken unaware.
XCIII.
Indeed the Idols I have loved so long
Have done my credit in this World much wrong:
Have drown'd my Glory in a shallow Cup,
And sold my reputation for a Song.
XCIV.
Indeed, indeed, Repentance oft before
I swore--but was I sober when I swore?
And then and then came Spring, and Rose-in-hand
My thread-bare Penitence apieces tore.
XCV.
And much as Wine has play'd the Infidel,
And robb'd me of my Robe of Honor--Well,
I wonder often what the Vintners buy
One half so precious as the stuff they sell.
XCVI.
Yet Ah, that Spring should vanish with the Rose!
That Youth's sweet-scented manuscript should close!
The Nightingale that in the branches sang,
Ah whence, and whither flown again, who knows!
XCVII.
Would but the Desert of the Fountain yield
One glimpse--if dimly, yet indeed, reveal'd,
To which the fainting Traveler might spring,
As springs the trampled herbage of the field!
XCVIII.
Would but some winged Angel ere too late
Arrest the yet unfolded Roll of Fate,
And make the stern Recorder otherwise
Enregister, or quite obliterate!
XCIX.
Ah Love! could you and I with Him conspire
To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,
Would not we shatter it to bits--and then
Re-mold it nearer to the Heart's Desire!
C.
Yon rising Moon that looks for us again--
How oft hereafter will she wax and wane;
How oft hereafter rising look for us
Through this same Garden--and for one in vain!
CI.
And when like her, oh Saki, you shall pass
Among the Guests Star-scatter'd on the Grass,
And in your joyous errand reach the spot
Where I made One--turn down an empty Glass!
TAMAM.
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