For the man who is beautiful is beautiful to see
but the good man will at once also beautiful be.
translated by Anne Carson
Author: zdunno03
from The Clay Cup by Ghalib
When a drop falls in the river, it becomes the river.
When a deed is done well, it becomes the future.
translated by Robert Bly
House Blessing from the Navajo: my wish for the new year
May it be delightful my house;
From my head may it be delightful;
To my feet may it be delightful;
Where I lie may it be delightful;
All above me may it be delightful;
All around me may it be delightful.
from The Sunrise Ruby by Rumi
Keep knocking, and the joy inside
will eventually open a window
and look out to see who’s there.
translated by Coleman Barks & John Moyne
Where Everything Is Music by Rumi
Don’t worry about saving these songs!
And if one of our instruments breaks,
it doesn’t matter.
We have fallen into the place
where everything is music.
The strumming and the flute notes
rise into the atmosphere,
and even if the world’s harp
should burn up, there will still be
hidden instruments playing.
So the candle flickers and goes out.
We have a piece of flint, and a spark.
This singing art is sea foam.
The graceful movements come from a pearl
somewhere on the ocean floor.
Poems reach up like spindrift and the edge
of driftwood along the beach, wanting!
They derive
from a slow and powerful root
that we can’t see.
Stop the words now.
Open the window in the center of your chest,
and let the spirits fly in and out.
translated by Coleman Barks with John Moyne
on sight: for Steve
you can’t see the food
on your plate
I’m told
or read the signs
in the subway
how you still stay positive
is a wonder to me
Rita says you’re deteriorating fast
and who will look after you
we proud men
we fall hard
a tree in the forest
a bear in the woods
I used to tease you about
all the bookmarks in books
you never finished
but later
inspired by me you said
you began reaching
that final page
it’s about discipline
something our kind never lacked
dinosaurs in a modern world
the bones of which
you would seek in deserts
now you only see shadows
where once were faces
of friends of family
dear old friend
my heart breaks again
like it does almost every day
these things in life
are never fair
years ago in college
we played that silly game
of what would you give up
if you had to choose one sense
of the five we are blessed with
it’s funny I can’t remember
what we each chose
but I do remember
what we deemed most valuable
our wonderous sight
eyes to see the world
the people in it
yours were clear
now there is only fog
oh dear old friend
I am no longer there
to drive your car to Texas
or guide you down stairs
in darkened theatres
to sign your name
on credit card receipts
to make you laugh
to hold you close
to face what must be
a future of dependency
the hardest role to play
for someone so stubbornly
self-sufficient
and yet
old dear friend
you stay in good spirits
proving once again
just how tough you are
on the new year
Meric calls me from New York, from the house I still own, though that is passing into history, and says, Happy New Year, even though for him it is a little over 6 hours away. And we talk, we laugh, we discuss the future, and he says it must be a strange time for you, living there now with all that is going on, the youth protesting, the scandals, the polarization of the population, the Turkish mentality. And I say it reminds me of America in the sixties, the same divisions, the same egotistical, paranoid leader dividing the country over a war we could not win. The only difference, I say, about the scandal that brought him down was it was about the abuse of power, where here it’s about that and money, too. And we talk of the hope we both have for Turkey, of his desire to return so his children will be raised here, near their grandparents, their families. And it warms my heart to hear his voice, to have this conversation, to be connected over the thousands of miles with a dear friend.
And I think about this new year and how it is a pivotal year in the lives of so many people I care about, I love. Jobs hang in the balance, or at least the prospect of jobs, the uncertainy of life, pathways once thought secure are no longer so, health issues raise their ugly heads, death has come and gone and dwindled the number of people I know, and new souls are stirring within wombs which will soon see the light of day in this new year. And a spirit of renewal, of hope, permeates the air.
And as I sit with my last glass of champagne from the bottle I have consumed in my private celebration of what has passed and what is before me, I hear drums in the air, sirens, voices chanting, and I think it is a new day, a new year, a new time to be alive, and feel what millions have felt before me on days such as this as one year melted into another. Life isn’t always what we want but it isn’t always something to fear, either. It is just life, rare and beautiful, something to cherish, to hold in our hands, taste with our mouths, embrace with our minds and our hearts.
Bring it on, I say, let it come. For the changes that will surely happen, for the people who will enter my life and the people I will leave behind. C’mon, life. Give me your best shot. I’m ready.
from Music Master by Rumi
We are the mirror as well as the face in it.
We are tasting the taste this minute
of eternity. We are pain
and what cures pain, both. We are
the sweet cold water and the jar that pours.
I want to hold you close like a lute,
so we can cry out with loving.
You would rather throw stones at a mirror?
I am your mirror, and here are the stones.
translated by Coleman Barks with John Moyne
poised before the new year
I would like to have
only good memories
of this day
this time of year
but I just see hospitals
both parents dying
this first month bodes heartache
for me
so I approach January
tentatively
like a door on a house
one fears might be haunted
for ghosts reside here
and though I see candlelight
a woman dancing naked
friends huddled around fondue pots
three floors of live bands
parties with casinos
and people dressed as elves
dinner at the Duck House
a woman in a tuxedo
and fishnet stockings
tap dancing her way
into my heart
there are still those ghosts
hovering
like birds of prey
waiting for another soul
to stumble to fall
in the desert
that is sometimes
life
from Bouyancy by Rumi
To praise is to praise
how one surrenders
to the emptiness.
To praise the sun is to praise your own eyes.
Praise, the ocean. What we say, a little ship.
So the sea-journey goes on, and who knows where!
Just to be held by the ocean is the best luck
we could have. It’s a total waking up!
translated by Coleman Barks with John Moyne
Leonard Durso 