Once upon a time, there was a poetess.
I am glad she is dead now because she was too ... abstruse. People couldn't understand what she was saying and she was becoming too eccentric. I had to kill her and I don't really miss her, she was an added weight ... with all the other people I host in my consciousness.
However, this is one poem... she wrote this in 2002 ... and although it suffers from the same element of being too superfluous … I think it’s forgivable… almost.
I am glad she is dead now because she was too ... abstruse. People couldn't understand what she was saying and she was becoming too eccentric. I had to kill her and I don't really miss her, she was an added weight ... with all the other people I host in my consciousness.
However, this is one poem... she wrote this in 2002 ... and although it suffers from the same element of being too superfluous … I think it’s forgivable… almost.
Memory Stains
Strings of ik-tara speak, the flute
Hums a rueful tune of enchanting history.
Musk of the wet Arabian sands,
Stain the silk of memory trace.
The medieval hourglass,
Flows down in deathless narration,
Of legends beneath the parched soils:
The tales told and forgotten…
Seeker of the Truth, soliciting in worship.
Calling out to the wine bearer,
To fill his chalice to the brim.
Overcome with rapture,
Loosing his sense, in the Sense.
Ay! Mansur El-Hallaj of Baghdad,
The seeker of light within Light
Paving that way through waylessness,
Other mortals cannot fathom.
The veils unveiled,
Light pervaded darkness.
The “I” annihilated, the self naughted,
Where Love became the enemy of the self,
And God’s Existence accentuated in the self’s nonexistence.
But, words betrayed invocation:
“I am the Truth!”
Cried the words of the mystic.
And thence, the gallows at his feet.
The devout folks, dismembered him
Limb from limb,
To silence, to entomb, to blend
His flesh within Iraqi sands…
“Kill me, my faithful friends!
For in my slaughter is my life -
And my life in my death.”
Cried the lover, intoxicated.
Hush the ik-tara, shun the chronicle!
Kneeling heads of Mohammed’s progeny,
Have rolled within the bowels of this earth-
It is but the nature of these wasteland sands.
But, who can label dust from dust,
The tyrant from the martyr-
The innocent from the oppressor-
And, the lover from the denier?
Tune down your laments, weeping flute,
The speaking tongue belies the feeling heart.
For him who tries to render passion into words,
Sees with Hallaj’s spirit to the gallows.
No alchemy, no elixir of life,
Memory stains, history tarnished.
Hallaj lives in the silent spirit,
Dies in words.
Hums a rueful tune of enchanting history.
Musk of the wet Arabian sands,
Stain the silk of memory trace.
The medieval hourglass,
Flows down in deathless narration,
Of legends beneath the parched soils:
The tales told and forgotten…
Seeker of the Truth, soliciting in worship.
Calling out to the wine bearer,
To fill his chalice to the brim.
Overcome with rapture,
Loosing his sense, in the Sense.
Ay! Mansur El-Hallaj of Baghdad,
The seeker of light within Light
Paving that way through waylessness,
Other mortals cannot fathom.
The veils unveiled,
Light pervaded darkness.
The “I” annihilated, the self naughted,
Where Love became the enemy of the self,
And God’s Existence accentuated in the self’s nonexistence.
But, words betrayed invocation:
“I am the Truth!”
Cried the words of the mystic.
And thence, the gallows at his feet.
The devout folks, dismembered him
Limb from limb,
To silence, to entomb, to blend
His flesh within Iraqi sands…
“Kill me, my faithful friends!
For in my slaughter is my life -
And my life in my death.”
Cried the lover, intoxicated.
Hush the ik-tara, shun the chronicle!
Kneeling heads of Mohammed’s progeny,
Have rolled within the bowels of this earth-
It is but the nature of these wasteland sands.
But, who can label dust from dust,
The tyrant from the martyr-
The innocent from the oppressor-
And, the lover from the denier?
Tune down your laments, weeping flute,
The speaking tongue belies the feeling heart.
For him who tries to render passion into words,
Sees with Hallaj’s spirit to the gallows.
No alchemy, no elixir of life,
Memory stains, history tarnished.
Hallaj lives in the silent spirit,
Dies in words.
5 comments:
she has to be resurrected!
That i had read before.
P.S
it reminds of of our earlier days. Those were so much fun:D.
TM: Hell no!
23 letters: Oh really?
[to] Hell [with] no,
[yes!]
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