Die Hoffhung II, 1907
—Painting by Gustav Klimt
NOT ALL, ONLY A FEW, RETURN AS THE ROSE OR THE TULIP
—Mirza Asadullah Khan Ghalib
Not all, only a few, return as the rose or the tulip;
What faces there must be still veiled by the dust!
The three stars, three Daughters, stayed veiled and secret by day;
what word did the darkness speak to bring them forth in their nakedness?
Sleep is his, and peace of mind, and the nights belong to him
across whose arms you spread the veils of your hair.
We are the forerunners; breaking the pattern is our way of life.
Whenever the races blurred they entered the stream of reality.
If Ghalib must go on shedding these tears, you who inhabit the world
will see these cities blotted into the wilderness.
(translated from the Persian by Adrienne Rich)
____________________
I'M NEITHER THE LOOSENING OF SONG NOR
THE CLOSE-DRAWN TENT OF MUSIC
—Mirza Asadullah Khan Ghalib
I'm neither the loosening of song nor the close-drawn tent of music;
I'm the sound, simply, of my own breaking.
You were meant to sit in the shade of your rippling hair;
I was made to look further into a blacker tangle.
All my self-possession is self-delusion;
what violent effort, to maintain this nonchalance!
Now that you've come, let me touch you in greeting
as the forehead of the beggar touches the ground.
No wonder you came looking for me, you
who care for the grieving, and I the sound of grief.
(translated from the Persian by Adrienne Rich)
____________________
FREELY IN HIDDEN FIRE
—Mirza Asadullah Khan Ghalib
Freely in hidden fire
my heart burned
Eloquent with silent flames my heart
burned
In my heart
no desire for her
no memory of her—
Fire gutted the house,
whatever was in it
burned
Now I've gone beyond
even Nonbeing:
I sighed—a rush of fire—
the wings of the imagined bird
burned
One
white-hot
slash of the mind
how to convey its power?
One passing thought of madness
and a desert
burned
I have no heart, or I'd show you
a carnival of scars
Too bad, such brilliant fireworks
but the operator
burned
Ghalib I am
and my longing is
cold ash sadness.
My heart saw the "warmth" of the worldly
and burned.
(trans from the Urdu by Frances W. Pritchett)
Die Jungfrau, 1913
—Painting by Gustav Klimt
ANY LOVER TO ANY BELOVED
—Faiz Ahmad Faiz
Today, if the breath of breeze
wants to scatter petals in the garden of memory,
why shouldn't it?
If a forgotten pain
in some corner of the past
wants to burst into flame again, let it happen.
Though you act like a stranger now—
come—be close to me for a few minutes.
Though after this meeting
we will know even better what we have lost,
and the gauze of words left unspoken
hangs between one line and another,
neither of us will mention our promises.
Nothing will be said of loyalty or faithlessnesss.
If my eyelashes want to tell you something
about wiping out the lines
left by the dust of time on your face,
you can listen or not, just as you like.
And what your eyes fail to hide from me—
if you care to, or course you may say it,
or not, as the case may be.
(trans. from the Urdu by Naomi Lazard)
___________________
BEFORE YOU CAME
—Faiz Ahmad Faiz
Before you came things were just what they were:
the road precisely a road, the horizon fixed,
the limit of what could be seen;
a glass of wine no more than a glass of wine.
Then the world took on the tints of my heart;
magnolia-petaled happiness of seeing you,
slate the color that fell
when I was fed up with everything.
With your advent roses burst into flame;
you were the author of dried-up leaves,
the dust, poison, blood.
You colored the night black.
As for the sky, the road, the cup of wine;
one was my tear-drenched shirt,
one was my tear-drenched shirt,
the other an aching nerve;
the third a mirror that never reflected the same thing.
This was all before you left me.
Now you have come back. Stay.
This time things will fall into place again;
the road can be the road,
the sky, sky;
the glass of wine, as it should be, the glass of wine.
(trans. from the Urdu by Naomi Lazard)
____________________
Today's LittleNip:
A POET
—Hafiz
A poet is someone
Who can pour light into a cup,
Then raise it to nourish
Your beautiful parched, holy mouth.
(trans. from the Persian by Daniel Ladinsky)
____________________
—Medusa
Der Kuss, 1917
—Painting by Gustav Klimt