What that murderous cruel have done
Makes me wretched like the invisible nightingale
Stones fell on me like rain
A flip of a friend tear me into pieces
I learnt who are the friends and enemies on my black day
I had ten troubles now I have fifty
I am put on the death order
Let them hang or shoot me
I am Pir Sultan Abdal, whose soul can’t rise into the air
Only if god commands, the rain shall start
The stones of the strangers never fell on me
But the rose of a friend hurts me
“Pir Sultan Abdal was a Sufi poet and rebel of his time against the Ottoman Sultan. He was sentenced to murder and this poem is said to be his last one. The hearsay is that, the Sultan orders the public to stone him, one of his fellow is afraid to go against the Sultan’s order but throws a rose instead of a stone not to hurt Pir Sultan. However, Pir Sultan hurt more because it comes from a friend but not an enemy.” It has been said that Ben Harper during a visit to Istanbul, heard this poem sung in a bar/cafe. This may have influenced his writing the song Roses From My Friends.
And she was fair as is the rose in May. — Geoffrey Chaucer
the power within.
the path is whatever passes—no
end in itself.
the end is,
the proof of the power within.
“Life’s spell is so exquisite, everything conspires to break it.” — Emily Dickinson
It wasn’t bliss. What was bliss
but the ordinary life? She’d spend hours
in patter, moving through whole days
touching, sniffing, tasting . . . exquisite
housekeeping in a charmed world.
And yet there was always
more of the same, all that happiness,
the aimless Being There.
So she wandered for a while, bush to arbor,
lingered to look through a pond’s restive mirror.
He was off cataloging the universe, probably,
pretending he could organize
what was clearly someone else’s chaos.
That’s when she found the tree,
the dark, crabbed branches
bearing up such speechless bounty,
she knew without being told
this was forbidden. It wasn’t
a question of ownership—
who could lay claim to
such maddening perfection?
And there was no voice in her head,
no whispered intelligence lurking
in the leaves—just an ache that grew
until she knew she’d already lost everything
except desire, the red heft of it
warming her outstretched palm.
by Rita Dove
Then what is the answer?- Not to be deluded by dreams.
To know that great civilizations have broken down into violence,
and their tyrants come, many times before.
When open violence appears, to avoid it with honor or choose
the least ugly faction; these evils are essential.
To keep one’s own integrity, be merciful and uncorrupted
and not wish for evil; and not be duped
By dreams of universal justice or happiness. These dreams will
not be fulfilled.
To know this, and know that however ugly the parts appear
the whole remains beautiful. A severed hand
Is an ugly thing and man dissevered from the earth and stars
and his history… for contemplation or in fact…
Often appears atrociously ugly. Integrity is wholeness,
the greatest beauty is
Organic wholeness, the wholeness of life and things, the divine beauty
of the universe. Love that, not man
Apart from that, or else you will share man’s pitiful confusions,
or drown in despair when his days darken.
By Robinson Jeffers
Verse For a Certain Dog
by Dorothy Parker
Such glorious faith as fills your limpid eyes,
Dear little friend of mine, I never knew.
All-innocent are you, and yet all-wise.
(For Heaven's sake, stop worrying that shoe!)
You look about, and all you see is fair;
This mighty globe was made for you alone.
Of all the thunderous ages, you're the heir.
(Get off the pillow with that dirty bone!)
A skeptic world you face with steady gaze;
High in young pride you hold your noble head,
Gayly you meet the rush of roaring days.
(Must you eat puppy biscuit on the bed?)
Lance-like your courage, gleaming swift and strong,
Yours the white rapture of a winged soul,
Yours is a spirit like a Mayday song.
Far up the dim twilight fluttered
Moth-wings of vapour and flame:
The lights danced over the mountains,
Star after star they came.
The lights grew thicker unheeded,
For silent and still were we;
Our hearts were drunk with a beauty
Our eyes could never see.
~ AE ~