Fifty rubai'yat (poems of Rumi cycle)

 

I never tried to publish the English versions of the rubaiyat, they were a kind if by-product of my work on a Polish translation. However, I sometimes read them at poetry meetings, for example at London's Poetry Café. As it happened, at one of those meetings a publisher was present, Isabel del Rio, owner of "Friends of Alice" publishing house. She liked them enough to suggest that they may be published in a book. Which happened and the book can now be purchased at Amazon.

At one point, long before the book was published, my Persian friend Ziba introduced me to a calligrapher named Morteza. He himself was a dervish, although not of the same order as Maulana Rumi. When I had a proposition to publish my collection of translations, I asked Morteza to illustrate it with his calligraphy. So here it is, the calligraphy in the style called nastaliq, although Morteza sometimes makes modern impression of that.

708.

I glimpsed your face and my sadness is gone;

To your face I am faithful, all others are gone.

I asked my heart about its desire,

But it didn’t have any, all my desires were gone.

708

دیدم رخت از غم سر موییم نماند

جز بندگی ی روی تو روییم نماند

با دل گفتم که آرزویی در خواه

دل گفت که هیچ آرزویی م نماند

1798.

You want goodness, but goodness is not what you bring,

If you’re creating evil, evil you will meet.

The compassion of God cannot change much here:

If you are sowing barley, you will not reap wheat.

1798

بد می‌کنی و نیک طمع می‌داری

هم بد باشد سزای بدکرداری

با این که خداوند کریم و است و رحیم

گندم ندهد بار چو جو می‌کاری

The book "Fifty Rubai'yat" can be purchased at Amazon

Kuliyat-e Divan-e Shams (poems of Rumi cycle)

 

I was proud of myself not only because I found "Kuliyat-e Divan-e Shams" without help, but also because the author of "Kuliyat" not Rumi, but ostensibly one Jalaluddin Balkhi (and I knew it was the same person).

The book was published in Iran and the Iranians don't like to call him Rumi. The name "Rumi" suggests that he came from Rum, which is a Persian name for Anatolia, then newly conquered by Turks. So this name suggests that he was somehow Turkish (which is what the Turks claim). But of course Rumi wrote in Persian, he is considered one of the greatest poets of that language; how could he be a Turk? However, Rumi was born in Balkh, which now is in Afghanistan but at least it is a Pesrian-speaking town. Let's call him Balkhi, then.

"Kuliyat" in this context means something like "complete", so the whole title would be "Complete Divan-e Shams". It is a collection of ghazals and rubaiyat which are in an alphabetical order and numbered. Alphabetical order, but counting letter from the end of the rhyme (which in most cases is the same word repeated three or four times).

Here I am presenting two rubaiyat with the same rhyme مترس matars, which means "fear not", although I decided to translate it into two different phrases.

Rubaiyat often had an extra word ending each line, often separate from the phrase that each line was, called redif. I am presenting here one rubai with a redif بیا biya (which I translated into a phrase "come to us")

977.

This world is being born, you don’t need to worry.

What comes will go away, you don’t need to worry.

Treat as a precious treasure every breath of life;

Forget the past, about the future you don’t need to worry.

977

از حادثه ی جهان زاینده مترس

وز هرچه رسد چو نیست پاینده مترس

این یکدم عمر را غنیمت می دان

از رفته میندیش وز آینده مترس

984.

Go forward on our path and have no fear,

Make sure you stay on the path and have no fear.

Even if the whole world wants you to die,

Don’t lose faith, stay with us and have no fear.

984

رو در صف بندگان ما باش و مترس

خاک در آسمان ما باش و مترس

گر جمله ی خلق قصد جان تو کنند

دل تنگ مکن از آن ما باش و مترس

15.

You who are as bright as the sun - come to us.

Without you leaves fall down from trees - come to us.

The world without you is covered in dust - come to us.

Meetings of friends are frosty without you - come to us.

15

ای آنکه چو آفتاب فرد است بیا

بیرون تو برگ و باغ زرد است بیا

عالم بی‌تو غبار و گرد است بیا

این مجلس عیش بی‌تو سرد است بیا

Unseen Rain (poems of Rumi cycle)

 Many years ago, when Rumi was not as well known as he is now, I went to a bookshop in London and found a book of poems titled "Unseen Rain". It was translated from Persian into open verse, or rather into bits of prose, as is often done in English in recent years, but nevertheless it made an impression on me. I thought I would like to read these poems in their original language one day. So I started to learn Persian.

Some years later, with some knowledge of Persian already, I went to another bookshop in London, one that only sold books in Arabic and Persian. I went to the Persian section and found there a book titled "Kuliyat-e Divan-e Shams-e Tabrizi", a large collection of ghazals and ruba'iyat of Rumi. I was very proud of myself that I could find it without anybody's help. However, my knowledge of Persian was not enough to translate these poems into Polish as I intended.

Still some years later I met somebody who helped me do just that. They were Persian-speaking poets Bashir from Afghanistan and Ziba from Iran. They explained the original so I could understand it and produce a Polish version. We communicated in English and by force some English versions also appeared.

All this exercise proved that I was right - one has to read these poems in their original language to really appreciate them. There is an unearthly rhythm in them, something like Bob Marley's reggae. Some Persian people even say that one can get drunk on Rumi. I tried to produce something approximate in English. I present some of them here. I also present the same poems as they appear in the "Unseen Rain". By no means I claim my versions are better, or anything like that. They are just my versions, that's all. I also present here the original Persian version, just in case any reader knows that language.  

67.

(my version)
I used to boast that I am the lord of myself;
Used to complain that I’m a slave of myself.
This is past, now I do not trust myself.
I understand: I don’t understand myself.

("Unseen Rain" version)

I thought I had self-control
so I regretted times I didn't.
With that considering over, the one thing I know
is I don't know who I am. 

(original)

گه می‌گفتم که من امیرم خود را

گه ناله‌ کنان که من اسیرم خود را

آن رفت و از این پس نپذیرم خود را

بگرفتم این که من نگیرم خود را

The rhyme (AAAA) is  خود را khod ra (of myself)

152

(my version)

A love without a lover – there is no better,

It’s like work without profit – there is no better.

You should stop being clever, forget all your cunning:

This is the real cunning – there is no better.

("Unseen Rain" version)

No better love than love with no object,

no more satysfying work than work with no purpose. 

If you could give up trocks and cleverness,

that would be the cleverest trick!

(original)

از بی‌یاری ظریف تر یاری نیست

وز بی‌کاری لطیف تر کاری نیست

هرکس که ز عیاری و حیله ببرید

والله که چو او زیرک و عیاری نیست

The rhyme here (AABA) is  نیست nist (is not)

681.

(my version)

In the shambles of love the best are being killed,

The bad mannered and disfigured are not being killed.

Don’t be afraid of death if you’re a true lover;

Only walking cadavers are scared of being killed.

("Unseen Rain" version)

In the shambles of love they kill only the best, 

none of the weak or deformed. 

Don't run away from this dying. 

Whoever is not killed for love is carrion.

(original)

در مطبخ عشق جز نکو را نکشند 

روبه صفتان زشت خو را نکشند

 گر عاشق صادقی ز مردن مگریز

 مردار بود هر آن که او را نکشند

The rhyme here (AABA) is  نکشند  nakoshand (they do not kill)

For whom did Jan Kochanowski write? (poetry from Poland cycle)

 

Jan Kochanowski (pronounce Yan Ko-hanofskee) (1530-1584) is the best known poet of the Polish Renaissance. A son of a noble family affluent enough to send him to the best universities, first to Cracow, later to Padua in Italy. Padua at that time was one of the best European universities, a centre of humanism, Kochanowski would meet there the best minds of the continent. After he returned to Poland he had a career in administration, for some time he was a secretary to king Sigismund Augustus. After the king’s death he retired from official duties and lived in his manor in a village called Czarnolas.

The Kingdom of Poland was at the hight of its power at that time. It was one of the great powers of Europe, the one that stopped the expansion of the Ottoman empire. Consequently in Kochanowski’s poetry there are no worries about the independence of the motherland, so typical of the later Polish poetry. On the other hand it seems that Kochanowski aimed at including Polish poetry in the broader European stream. He also wrote in Latin, which in his time would gain him educated readers in other countries. When he wrote in Polish, he seemed to write in a style not dissimilar from Horace, albeit in a different language. Also important is the fact that he wrote his poems so they could be published in books; it seems obvious today, but at the time a printed book was a new technology, the printing press having only been invented. Which meant of course that even when he wrote in Polish, he wrote for the educated, at least enough to read a book.

Below an example of a poem not dissimilar from Horace, albeit written originally in Polish.

SONG 5 (of the First Book of Songs)

He who has his bread

All that one can need

Does not need to worry about high incomes

About villages, towns and walled castles.

A lord is someone (this is what I say)

Who is satisfied with whatever he has.

Whoever seeks more, shows himself

That in his own opinion he is still inferior.

Great riches has gained

Who has got rid of greed.

It is more difficult than to conquer Turks

Or to make fierce Tartars pay tribute.

The king of Macedon

Won in a short time,

A big chunk of the world, but still he thought

That it won't be enough to have the whole world.

What's the use of armour

Or temporal power?

Gold is no medicine for your heart.

It won't drive worries away from your head.

Mrs. Death is nasty

Grabs by their throats

Both lowly servants and their rich lords

Won't give you time to pay all you owe.

Most people (I think),

Worry about one thing:

How to acquire more silver and gold.

A glutton will never have enough to eat.

It will all stay here

When you are deceased

And somebody else's house will decorate

All that you hoarded here with such greed.

This supposed safe house

One day will fall apart

And the wine that today you worry so much about

Will be given to horses by your own grandchild.

If you would like to read these poems (and some more) on paper, 

You can get a printout of my book "POLISH INSPIRATIONS"

O which nationality was Adam Mickiewicz? (poetry from Poland cycle)

 

Adam Mickiewicz (pron. Adam Meetzkyevich) (1798-1855) was born in a small town called Nowogrodek (or Navahrudak), which is in today's Belarus. The very beginning of his greatest poem start with the words: "Lithuania, my motherland..." These very words are written, however, in Polish, as are all his poems. For which reason he is considered a Polish poet. Which may well sound strange to an English speaker; after all no Irishman would call himself English because he writes poems the English language. In fact Mickiewicz himself  considered himself to be a Polish-speaking Lithuanian (the kingdom that usually is called Polish was actually the United Kingdom of Poland and Lithuania). Born only a few years after Poland lost its independence, conquered by Russia, Germany and Austria, Mickiewicz was the leading poet that encouraged his countrymen to struggle to regain it. He was born in Nowogrodek, studied in Vilnius (today the capital of Lithuania), travelled in Russia, emigrated to France, died in Turkey, he actually has never been to Poland proper. In France he taught Slavonic Literature at Sorbonne and was a member of Academie Francaise. In Turkey he tried to organise a Polish legion that would fight against Russia during the Crimean war.

Throughout the 19^th century many Polish poets wrote poems that would help to keep the fighting spirit, so one day the independence might be regained. Mickiewicz is the best known of those poets. Of course this was not the only subject of his poetry. His best work, entitled “Pan Tadeusz” is a masterpiece unique in the whole European literature. It is a multi-plot novel written entirely in beautiful and majestic verse. Set in a manor in rural Lithuania, it has a romantic plot as well as a fast action plot, and a dark past of one of the main characters being slowly discovered. Of course there is also a fight between Russians and Poles, which in the book the Poles win.

I am publishing this at the time of war between Russia and Ukraine. I just read the "Ordon's Rampart" again and it struck me as very up to date, except that the name of "Ordon" (a name of a Polish officer) could be substituted for "Ukraine". The second fragment of Ordon's Rampart" could be a perfect description of one Mr. Putin.

However, Mickiewicz was not always political. The other poem, "Dad's homecoming", is an example of his non-political poetry.

ORDON'S RAMPART

We weren't told to shoot; I stepped on a gun

And looked at the field – 200 cannons thundered.

Rows of Russian artillery are in lines

Spread far and wide, like shores of a sea.

I saw their captain – he came, signalled with his sword

And like a bird he closed a wing of his army.

From under that wing infantry spills out

In long and grey columns, like a torrent of mud

Sprinkled with flashing bayonets; like vultures

The black banners lead those columns to their deaths.

Against them stands a white, narrow, sharp bastion

Like a rock cutting through the sea – Ordon's rampart.

It only had six guns, all flashing and smoking

And an angry mouth won't say as many words

A despairing soul wont change it's mood as quickly

As those guns shot cannonballs, bombs and grenades.

Look, there a grenade plunges into the middle of a column

Like a lava into the waves of the sea – it covers the column with smoke

The grenade explodes in a cloud of smoke, the column flies to the sky

And a great clearing shines among the lines.

(...)

Where is the king, who sends those crowds to the slaughter?

Does he share their courage? Does he risk his life?

No, he sits 500 miles away on his throne.

A great king, the autocrat of a half of the world.

He frowns – a thousand prisoners are sent to Siberia.

Puts a signature – a thousand mothers cry over graves of their children.

He nods – whips are cracked from Niemen to Khiva.

O strongman, powerful as God, malevolent as the devil

When the Turks beyond the Balkans are scared of your guns

When the envoy from Paris licks your feet

Warsaw alone laughs at you omnipotence

She lifts her hand against you to take down the crown

The crown of king Casimir and of king Boleslaus

Because you have stolen it and stained it with blood, you son of a Russian...

DAD'S HOMECOMING (Powrot taty)

Come here children, come all together

Out of town by the pole on the hill.

Let's kneel there before a holy icon

And piously say a prayer.

Your dad is not coming and I wait for him

Each morning and evening, in tears and fear.

Rivers burst their banks, forests are full of wild animals

And roads are full of brigands.

When the children hear this, they run all together

Out of town by the pole on the hill.

There they kneel before the holy icon

And they start the prayer.

They kiss the ground, then: „In the Name of the Father

The Son and the Holy Spirit.

Be praised, Most Holy Trinity

Now and forever, Amen.”

Then „Our Father...” and „Hail Mary” and the Creed,

The Ten Commandments and more

And when they have finished the set prayers

They take a book prom a pocket.

And the litany to the Holy Virgin

The eldest brother sings, and with him

„O Holy Mother” all the children sing

„Protect, protect our father”.

Creaking wheels of carts suddenly are heard

Familiar carts can be seen.

The children jump, shout as loud as they can:

“It's our dad, he is coming!”

The merchant saw them, shed tears of happiness

Jumped to the ground from his cart.

“How are you all, what are news from home?

Did you long for your dad?”

“Is your mum well? Your auntie? Everybody else?

Here are raisins in the basket.”

This one is talking and that one is talking

Lots of happiness and noise.

“Go” the merchant commands his servants,

“I will walk to the town with the children”

Suddenly robbers appear all around.

There is twelve of them.

They have long beards, long and twisted whiskers

Wild eyes, dirty garments.

Knives behind their belts, a sword flashes by the side

A huge mace held in a hand.

The children cry, they cling to their father

They hide under his mantle.

The servants tremble, the masters face is pale

His shaking hands he lifts to the robbers.

“Take all the carts with all the goods with them

But let us walk away.

Don't make the little children orphans

Don't make a young wife a widow.”

The brigands don;'t listen, one leads away horses,

Another shouts: “Where is the money!”

And grabs the enormous mace,

Another threatens the servants with a sword.

Suddenly a senior brigand shouts “Stop it!”

And drives away the gang.

He lets go the father and children

and says: “Go without fear”

The merchant thanks, but the robber says:

“Don't thank me, I tell you honestly.

I'd be the first to crack your head with a mace

If not for the children's prayers.”

“It is because of the children I am letting you go

Thanks to them you are alive and well.

You can thank them for what has happened

And I will tell you why.

“Long ago we heard that a merchant will pass this way

So I and my companions

Here outside the town, by a pole on a hill

Were sitting in an ambush.”

“Today I came and looking through bushes

I saw them praying to God.

I heard them, at first it made me laugh

But then my heart started trembling.”

“I heard them and I remembered my own home

Suddenly I dropped my mace.

I also have a wife, and with my wife

There is my little son.”

“O merchant, go to the town, I will go to the woods.

You, children, sometimes come to this hill

And for my soul

Sometimes say a prayer.”

If you would like to read these poems (and some more) on paper, 

You can get a printout of my book "POLISH INSPIRATIONS"

Cyprian Kamil Norwid (poetry from Poland cycle)

 

Cyprian Kamil Norwid (pron. Tzipryan Kameel Norveed) (1821-1883)  was born in Warsaw. He wanted to be a painter and enrolled in an art school, which he never finished. He travelled to Italy, Germany, France, even New York, from where he returned to Paris. He never returned to Poland and died in Paris.

One of the forgotten poets, never popular during his lifetime, some of his works weren’t even published until well after his death. He died penniless and homeless in Paris. A 100 years after his death he is considered one of Poland’s greatest poets, even rock musicians write songs to his lyrics. For example the poem "Pilgrim" (translated below) was sang in the 1970s by Czeslaw Niemen, one of the biggest stars of the times. 

MY SONG

That country, where a crumb of bread

Is picked up from the floor because of respect

For gifts of Heaven -

I miss, O Lord

That country, where it is a big sin

To wreck a stork nest on a tree top,

Because they help us all -

I miss, O Lord

That country, where day's first greetings

Are like the centuries-old call of Christ:

“Blessed be the Name...”

I miss, O Lord

I miss also something else

Though I don't know any more where it is now

Something equally innocent -

I miss, O Lord

The not-missing and not-having-cares,

Those for whom yes means yes and no means no

Without the twilight

I miss, O Lord

I miss it all, but who'll miss me there?

It has to be so, it will not change.

All my friendship

I miss, O Lord.

IN VERONA

Over the house of Capuletti and Montague,

Washed by rain, moved by thunder,

Calm eye of deep blue

Looks at the ruins of hostile castles,

At the crumbling gates to gardens,

And throws a star from on high.

Cypresses say that it is for Juliet,

That it is for Romeo, this tear drop from heaven

That fall on the graves to water them,

But people say, and they say with wisdom

That these are stones rather than the tear drops

And nobody waits for them.

PILGRIM

There is a state over all states,

Like a tower over flat rooftops,

Piercing the clouds.

You think that I am not a lord,

Because my house is on the road,

Made of camel hide.

But I exist in a womb of heaven

As it pulls my soul towards itself,

Like a pyramid.

And I, too, possess as much land,

As is covered by my foot,

As long as I walk…

If you would like to read these poems (and some more) on paper, 

You can get a printout of my book "POLISH INSPIRATIONS"

Maciej Rembarz (poetry from Poland cycle)

 

Maciej Rembarz (pron. Machei Rembazh) was born and brought up in Poznan, he studied Polish literature at the university there; Stanislaw Baranczak was his teacher. Rembarz never finished his studies and led a colourful life working in various places, including as a teacher at various schools, looking after exotic fish in a zoo, writing slogans for an advertising company, for some time he had a farm with 300 sheep, a couple of years he spent in prison. Now he lives deep in Puszcza Notecka forest tending his goat.

I have to admit that in this case I have done more to make him known than just write English version of his poems. As it happens I know Maciej Rembarz quite well and have known for a long time that he claimed to be a poet. However, he wrote those poems on scraps of paper and never tried to publish them. Once I got hold of those scraps and sent them to my friend who at the time was the editor of "Czas Kultury" literary magazine. The poems were published there in 1992 and after that several books of poems followed. Well known he is not but certainly more than he would be if he just carried on writing on scraps.

MACIEJ REMBARZ LOOKS FOR THE LOST SHEEP,
BEING LOST HIMSELF
He emerged from the falling fog
holding fast to its fleece.
He heads towards the sheepsty
carried by the animal,
which every now and again kneels down.
Hooves every so often knock
on the field stones in the rhythm:
Alleluia
Alleluia



IN "HUNTER'S BAR" (MIEDZICHOWO)
MACIEJ REMBARZ TALKS TO LUBIK
You dig for all in the parish.
You take "for a hole" (as you say) seven grand.
It's too dear for me.
Anyway, who likes to pay too much
in such a friable and delicate matter ?
I wouldn't feel good in a grave dug
by a dog.
In you only the bicycle and the hat are human.
I’m never sure whether you haven’t come in my case.
I know, your war pension is low, few zlotys;
but thanks to it you can wait.
You can wait for each one of us.
Well, somebody's got to do it,
but why it has to be you ?
Face wet with someone else's tears,
spitting in your dry hands...
Fuck off, Lubik, keep
your dirty hands away from me
and don't slap my back either now or ever.
Remember, Lubik: never.

Prayer:
Don't take away his hope, o Lord.



MACIEJ REMBARZ TALKS TO A WOMAN WHO, AFTER AN ABORTION PERFORMED WITH A TABLE SPOON, ENDED UP AT THE WARD 19C OBRZYCE
It is Sunday and I with you
The blessing URBI AND ORBI
Should rest upon you
to you upon you.
You are the city and the world of misery,
Madonna with teeth knocked out.
I know, you couldn't bear the breath of
eternal humility.
Please, sleep.
Sleep, I beg you, don't press your knees
against this cold floor.
After all you gave birth to me.



MACIEJ REMBARZ, TOGETHER WITH HIS DAUGHTER,
SAYS THE EVENING PRAYER
From her mouth he reads the image
of prayer; rustling with his crumpled
lips he repeats forgotten
hopes.

My litany: a plea
Let her prayer be like a kite
O Lord.



MACIEJ REMBARZ WRITES TO A MIRROR
HAVING FALLEN INTO A TERRIBLE ADDICTION
OF FAITH IN THE CALLING OF THE WORD
He moves beads
of hope
between his fingers
asking
for hope
or
rejection.
Wooden tears of the Rosary
burn his face
wash his lips.

If you would like to read these poems (and some more) on paper, 

You can get a printout of my book "POLISH INSPIRATIONS"