Under vault of heaven we make merry
Ev’n as seasons after their fashion hurry:
Surely as our peers we replaced in time
We must leave seats- for time will not tarry.
The spirited spout by its very shape
Gives somewhat a hint that it holds within;
‘Peer not in confusion of mouth agape
Drink deep and learn of me,’ so says the urn.
Quatrain#11 Now Voyager
We are lost on this great sea of living
We seek no port or care where we’re heading:
Love, you and I as we make the landfall
Seek not the past nor what future will bring.((First ed.)
Posted in poetry, tagged being, Benny Thomas, fame, free translation, Hatim Tai, life death, non-being, Omar Khayyam, Persian poetry, quatrain, Rustom, The Rubaiyat, vanity of man's hopes on December 18, 2013 | Leave a Comment »
Gone are those Movers and Shakers of yore
They had their day and shall trouble us no more;
Let Rustom holler or Hatim Tai plead,
Never mind- They are all in death done for.
Remote control it is not, press I well
Surfing channels of reason, my eyes fail-
If Nature stayed true to will and please
My senses-Ah it would be worth my while.
In this age of instant gratification can Omar Khayyam be relevant to us? I believe the quatrain form could be used to convey our spiritual confusion or love for Immensities that comes in byte-size, only we call it passing time. Nature changes: seasons after seasons on the treadmill of Time, is the riddle that was poets of every age and clime had to come to terms with.
Who is using the remote control, by the way?
It is somewhat like the theatre of the Absurd. One who makes Nature keep renewing the face of the earth affects us as well. Lacking in time we require certainties and only certainty that we end up with is what one might call as Chance.
Thanks to our attention-deficit we also keep checking out what is all available whenever we want some entertainment. Instead we are inundated with bits and snatches of man’s art, news of the mart that would not even feed the appetite of a louse. Who is using the remote control and what for?
“The Place where the mighty one once abode
Of Pomp and glory devoid remains ruin’d;
All I could hear there was the cry of dove,
‘Coo! where art thou!’, on and on she moaned.”
(text and illustration-benny thomas)