27-08-2007, 05:53 PM
I died as a rock and become a plant. I died as a plant and rose to animal. I died an animal and became human. Why should I fear when I was less before dying? One day I will again die as human. To soar with the blessed angels above. And when I sacrifice my angel life I shall become what no mind can conceive.
Jalaladin Al Rumi
27-08-2007, 05:57 PM
This was posted by Sean on the Enemies of Reason thread, but he didn't say who it was by or if he wrote it. I think it's wonderful!:
All their lives nothing but Darkness. And shadows.
Then they hear other blind people talking about
wonderful mountains, boundless blue skies, sparkling rivers,
And they laugh to themselves and think:
'What sad, misguided blind people. We must stop all this. They
are only deluding themselves - but soon other blind people will
start believing this escapist fantasy.'
'Listen people: face facts. We are blind. There is nothing
but darkness and these shadows. You've experienced this
all your life - so, let's be rational just please let's accept it
and stop this dreaming. There are NO mountains,
NO blue skies, NO sparkling rivers and definitely NO majestic
cities.....All the above is a fantasy. Let’s forget it!
The next day, a famous physician arrives who has found
a cure for their blindness.
And no-one is the slightest bit interested.
27-08-2007, 07:08 PM
I want this poem tattooed on my left arm. The entire thing. Someday.
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream--and not make dreams your master,
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!
by Rudyard Kipling
Seriously, when I first read it, it brought tears to my eyes.
27-08-2007, 08:52 PM
A friend sent me this beautiful, evocative
Poem also by Rumi
Those Who Don't Feel This Love
Those who don't feel this love
pulling them like a river
Those who don't drink dawn
like a cup of spring water
or take sunset like supper
Those who don't want to change
Let them sleep.
is beyond the study of theology
that old and trickery and hypocrisy
If you want to improve your mind that way
I've given up on my brain
I've torn the cloth to shreds
and thrown it away.
If you're not completely naked
wrap your beautiful robe of words
28-08-2007, 01:14 AM
I read this poem a few years ago and marvelled at it's Quantum like flux flow.
Burnt Norton - Quarter 1
Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.
What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden. My words echo
Thus, in your mind.
But to what purpose
Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves
I do not know.
Inhabit the garden. Shall we follow?
Quick, said the bird, find them, find them,
Round the corner. Through the first gate,
Into our first world, shall we follow
The deception of the thrush? Into our first world.
There they were, dignified, invisible,
Moving without pressure, over the dead leaves,
In the autumn heat, through the vibrant air,
And the bird called, in response to
The unheard music hidden in the shrubbery,
And the unseen eyebeam crossed, for the roses
Had the look of flowers that are looked at.
There they were as our guests, accepted and accepting.
So we moved, and they, in a formal pattern,
Along the empty alley, into the box circle,
To look down into the drained pool.
Dry the pool, dry concrete, brown edged,
And the pool was filled with water out of sunlight,
And the lotos rose, quietly, quietly,
The surface glittered out of heart of light,
And they were behind us, reflected in the pool.
Then a cloud passed, and the pool was empty.
Go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children,
Hidden excitedly, containing laughter.
Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind
Cannot bear very much reality.
Time past and time future
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
Garlic and sapphires in the mud
Clot the bedded axle-tree.
The trilling wire in the blood
Sings below inveterate scars
Appeasing long forgotten wars.
The dance along the artery
The circulation of the lymph
Are figured in the drift of stars
Ascend to summer in the tree
We move above the moving tree
In light upon the figured leaf
And hear upon the sodden floor
Below, the boarhound and the boar
Pursue their pattern as before
But reconciled among the stars.
At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;
Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,
But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,
Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards,
Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,
There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.
I can only say, there we have been: but I cannot say where.
And I cannot say, how long, for that is to place it in time.
The inner freedom from the practical desire,
The release from action and suffering, release from the inner
And the outer compulsion, yet surrounded
By a grace of sense, a white light still and moving,
Erhebung without motion, concentration
Without elimination, both a new world
And the old made explicit, understood
In the completion of its partial ecstasy,
The resolution of its partial horror.
Yet the enchainment of past and future
Woven in the weakness of the changing body,
Protects mankind from heaven and damnation
Which flesh cannot endure.
Time past and time future
Allow but a little consciousness.
To be conscious is not to be in time
But only in time can the moment in the rose-garden,
The moment in the arbour where the rain beat,
The moment in the draughty church at smokefall
Be remembered; involved with past and future.
Only through time time is conquered.
Here is a place of disaffection
Time before and time after
In a dim light: neither daylight
Investing form with lucid stillness
Turning shadow into transient beauty
With slow rotation suggesting permanence
Nor darkness to purify the soul
Emptying the sensual with deprivation
Cleansing affection from the temporal.
Neither plenitude nor vacancy. Only a flicker
Over the strained time-ridden faces
Distracted from distraction by distraction
Filled with fancies and empty of meaning
Tumid apathy with no concentration
Men and bits of paper, whirled by the cold wind
That blows before and after time,
Wind in and out of unwholesome lungs
Time before and time after.
Eructation of unhealthy souls
Into the faded air, the torpid
Driven on the wind that sweeps the gloomy hills of London,
Hampstead and Clerkenwell, Campden and Putney,
Highgate, Primrose and Ludgate. Not here
Not here the darkness, in this twittering world.
Descend lower, descend only
Into the world of perpetual solitude,
World not world, but that which is not world,
Internal darkness, deprivation
And destitution of all property,
Desiccation of the world of sense,
Evacuation of the world of fancy,
Inoperancy of the world of spirit;
This is the one way, and the other
Is the same, not in movement
But abstention from movement; while the world moves
In appetency, on its metalled ways
Of time past and time future.
Time and the bell have buried the day,
The black cloud carries the sun away.
Will the sunflower turn to us, will the clematis
Stray down, bend to us; tendril and spray
Clutch and cling?
Fingers of yew be curled
Down on us? After the kingfisher's wing
Has answered light to light, and is silent, the light is still
At the still point of the turning world.
Words move, music moves
Only in time; but that which is only living
Can only die. Words, after speech, reach
Into the silence. Only by the form, the pattern,
Can words or music reach
The stillness, as a Chinese jar still
Moves perpetually in its stillness.
Not the stillness of the violin, while the note lasts,
Not that only, but the co-existence,
Or say that the end precedes the beginning,
And the end and the beginning were always there
Before the beginning and after the end.
And all is always now. Words strain,
Crack and sometimes break, under the burden,
Under the tension, slip, slide, perish,
Decay with imprecision, will not stay in place,
Will not stay still. Shrieking voices
Scolding, mocking, or merely chattering,
Always assail them. The Word in the desert
Is most attacked by voices of temptation,
The crying shadow in the funeral dance,
The loud lament of the disconsolate chimera.
The detail of the pattern is movement,
As in the figure of the ten stairs.
Desire itself is movement
Not in itself desirable;
Love is itself unmoving,
Only the cause and end of movement,
Timeless, and undesiring
Except in the aspect of time
Caught in the form of limitation
Between un-being and being.
Sudden in a shaft of sunlight
Even while the dust moves
There rises the hidden laughter
Of children in the foliage
Quick now, here, now, always—
Ridiculous the waste sad time
Stretching before and after.
T.S. Eliot: Four Quartets
28-08-2007, 01:19 AM
I wrote this one after a troublesome period - critique is welcome.
It’s perfectly ok to be confused
about your own destiny,
desires and death,
status, spirituality and success,
aloof of times sublime expanse –
before and after
breath in trance.
For what goes up + out
doesn’t always come back down.
In rest be assured
If the sage’s gnosis becomes flawed
Sky and sleep may switch stations,
inconvenience the stores -
Shock-stock nation states
Unlimited supply on remand,
supplant to unite
once wise lords, solemn and bored
now take flight in common cause -
out of the head
stretches a hand
to swap crowns for thorns.
Torn feathers are reborn, in hope to suffer scorn
A plumed phoenix falls and feels the toil of the land
Reptiles become mammals
In once serene desert sands
All the while a cross dressing secreting clown
Laughs a lie out load
Then gives birth to an Earth
Free of doubts + frowns
Where temples and churches are muddy mounds
Illuminating all with no lights or sounds.
29-08-2007, 05:38 PM
Those are all lovely, guys. It's actually the 800th anniversary of Rumi's birth this year, so it's appropriate that we're putting up his poems.
Here's a little one I wrote:
I wish I wasn't only a porter
The lowest human life on Earth
I've watched Hobly City and read Loaded
We can't go against conformist worth
The one goal in life is to acheive
Conventional status and wealth
If you want to be free not to persue them
It could be very bad for your health!
10-09-2007, 03:09 PM
This is a Native American poem, author unknown, but it was posted on the DarkConspiracy forum by Marcow:
One evening an old Cherokee told his grandson about a battle that goes on inside people. He said, "My son, the battle is between two wolves inside us all. One is Evil. It is anger, envy, jealousy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, resentment inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority and ego. The other is good. It is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion and faith."
The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather, "Which wolf wins?"
He replied: "The One we feed!"