Ch 02 The Morals Of Dervishes Story 08
A great man was praised in an assembly and, his good qualities being extolled, he raised his head and said: ‘I am such as I know myself to be.’
O thou who reckonest my virtues, refrainest from giving me pain,
These are my open, and thou knowest not my hidden, qualities.
My person is, to the eyes of the world, of good aspect
But my internal wickedness makes me droop my head with shame.
The peacock is for his beauteous colours by the people
Praised whilst he is ashamed of his ugly feet.
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Ch 02 The Morals Of Dervishes Story 01
One of the great devotees having been asked about his opinion concerning a hermit whom others had censured in their conversation, he replied: ‘I do not see any external blemishes on him and do not know of internal ones.’
Whomsoever thou seest in a religious habit
Consider him to be a religious and good man
And, if thou knowest not his internal condition,
What business has the muhtasib inside the house?
Only reasons
I look only to the good qualities of men.
Not being faultless. I won't presume to probe into the faults of others…
Mahatma Gandhi
How come person feels jealous?
When he is not known or famous
Full of faults yet dreams for honor
Dreams about praise from people to be called donor
Money or wealth does not form the simple criteria?
Proper evaluation should also come from intelligentsia
People from all walks of life should praise his quality
Shower all blessings in public and pray for his nobility
People try to take lesson from his noble life
As everybody is aware about the sharp edge of knife
Life can prove even hard in absence of any possible help
What is use of treasure if that remains in deep belt or shelf?
It is always nice to pick good advises
Learn good qualities and escape possible misses
Their life becomes exemplary for masses
For which there is no need to hold the classes
One should look at good aspect
Disregard at what their real means to act
Pick whatever is good
Adopt their thoughts as food
Such were his noble thoughts
It is brave to admit own faults
Great people never cared to be called bad person
As their life was life open card and has several reasons
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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There is a strange duality in the human which makes for an ethical paradox. We have definitions of good qualities and of bad; not changing things, but generally considered good and bad throughout the ages and throughout the species. Of the good, we think always of wisdom, tolerance, kindliness, generosity, humility; and the qualities of cruelty, greed, self-interest, graspingness, and rapacity are universally considered undesirable. And yet in our structure of society, the so-called and considered good qualities are invariable concomitants of failure, while the bad ones are the cornerstones of success.
quote by John Steinbeck
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Ch 04 On The Advantages Of Silence Story 12
A preacher imagined his miserable voice to be pleasing and raised useless shouts, thou wouldst have said that the crow of separation had become the tune of his song; and the verse- for the most detestable of voices is surely the voice of asses- appears to have been applicable to him. This distich also concerns him:
When the preacher Abu-l-Fares brays
At his voice Istakhar-Fares quakes.
On account of the position he occupied the inhabitants of the locality submitted to the hardship and did not think proper to molest him. In course of time, however, another preacher of that region, who bore secret enmity towards him, arrived on a visit and said to him: ‘I have dreamt about thee, may it end well!’ ‘What hast thou dreamt?’ ‘I dreamt that thy voice had become pleasant and that the people were comfortable during thy sermons.’ The preacher meditated a while on these words and then said: ‘Thou hast dreamt a blessed dream because thou hast made me aware of my defect. It has become known to me that I have a disagreeable voice and that the people are displeased with my loud reading. Accordingly I have determined henceforth not to address them except in a subdued voice’:
I am displeased with the company of friends
To whom my bad qualities appear to be good.
They fancy my faults are virtues and perfection.
My thorns they believe to be rose and jessamine.
Say. Where is the bold and quick enemy
To make me aware of my defects?
He whose faults are not told him
Ignorantly thinks his defects are virtues.
Lines Written on the Eve of His Execution
Let them bestow on every airth a limb,
Then open all my veins, that I may swim
To thee, my Maker, in that crimson lake,
Then place my par boiled head upon a stake;
Scatter my ashes, strow them in the air.
Lord, since thou knowest where all these atoms are,
I'm hopeful thou'lt recover once my dust,
And confident thou'lt raise me with the just.
poem by James Graham
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Let them bestow on every airth a limb,
Let them bestow on every airth a limb,
Then open all my veins, that I may swim
To thee, my Maker, in that crimson lake,
Then place my par boiled head upon a stake;
Scatter my ashes, strow them in the air.
Lord, since thou knowest where all these atoms are,
I'm hopeful thou'lt recover once my dust,
And confident thou'lt raise me with the just.
poem by James Graham
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Sonnet: Take Thou My…
Take Thou my hands and use them as Thy own;
Thou knowest well their optimum usage;
And I might use them almost like a clown!
Abuse/ misuse them ’fore I reach old-age.
Take Thou my eyes and use them as Thy own,
So that they see just things they’re meant to see;
For I might see things, on which Thou couldst frown,
Or fail to see the things I must freely.
Take Thou my mind and use it as Thy own,
My ears and nose and tongue and skin as well;
My thoughts and actions should not let me down;
Let not my soul forever burn in Hell.
Take Thou my soul and use it as Thy own,
Before I sin and Thou must me disown!
6-8-2001
Dedicated to all Righteous and God-fearing
People of this world!
poem by John Celes
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Ch 07 On The Effects Of Education Story 13
An Indian who was learning how to throw naphtha was thus reproved by a sage: ‘This is not a play for thee whose house is made of reeds.’
Speak not unless thou knowest it is perfectly proper
And ask not what thou knowest will not elicit a good reply.
Vanity Brute
Whenever some friend praised
That my poetry is good
Fuddled; I raise my hand
To check for horns on head
Satisfied; I bruit abroad
“Well! Well! So far so good
Vanity brute hasn’t gone to head
I am still your kind
Eligible to coyly tread
Along with you; ahead”
poem by Sathya Narayana
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Sonnet: On Calumny
Be thou a saint and yet the world won't spare;
Be thou most chaste and yet, most tongues will talk;
Be thou a crook and yet people don't care;
Be thou a tiger yet, some men will stalk.
Be thou cruel and yet the world will praise;
Be thou too kind and yet the world will taunt;
Be thou rigid and yet the world can't face;
Be thou timid and yet the world will haunt;
Be thou selfish and yet the world loves thee;
Be thou selfless and yet the world thee hates;
Be thou goodly and yet you are not free;
Be thou evil and yet the world thee mates.
Be thou yourself and yet the world finds fault;
Be thou anything, yet the world will vault.
poem by John Celes
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Ch 01 Manner of Kings Story 21
It is narrated that an oppressor of the people, a soldier, hit the head of a pious man with a stone and that the dervish, having no means of taking vengeance, preserved the stone till the time arrived when the king became angry with that soldier, and imprisoned him in a well. Then the dervish made his appearance and dropped the stone upon his head. He asked: "Who art thou, and why hast thou hit my head with this stone?" The man replied: "I am the same person whom thou hast struck on the head with this stone on such and such a day." The soldier continued: "Where hast thou been all this time?" The dervish replied: "I was afraid of thy dignity but now when I beheld thee in the well I made use of the opportunity."’
When thou seest an unworthy man in good luck
Intelligent men have chosen submission.
If thou hast not a tearing sharp nail
It will be better not to contend with the wicked.
Who grasps with his fist one who has an arm of steel
Injures only his own powerless wrist.
Wait till inconstant fortune ties his hand.
Then, to please thy friends, pick out his brains.
The True Knowledge
Thou knowest all; I seek in vain
What lands to till or sow with seed -
The land is black with briar and weed,
Nor cares for falling tears or rain.
Thou knowest all; I sit and wait
With blinded eyes and hands that fail,
Till the last lifting of the veil
And the first opening of the gate.
Thou knowest all; I cannot see.
I trust I shall not live in vain,
I know that we shall meet again
In some divine eternity.
poem by Oscar Wilde
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Keeper of the Ancient Doors
Thou Keeper of the ancient doors
Thou Angel of the deep in the light
Thou Spirit in the seers of the times of yore
Thou that keeps the secrets of the distant future
Thou that preserves the history of the ancient past
Grant thou me entrance through thy door
That I may see into the future with thee
For unto the prince of darkness the world shall turn
Save thou grant the son of light the future’s light
Unstop my ears to the whispers from the future
Enlighten my eyes to behold the things that shall be
Grant thou me the spirit of the future today
That I might ride on his wings to times yet unborn
Let me soar on the wings of the eagle from the future
That I may see beyond the now and the near
For unto thee the future is as history in the open
And before thy eyes is nothing ever concealed at-all
Quicken my discernment in line with thine
That I may discern the way thou doesth
Move my heart beyond the things of now
That my passions may be for things unseen
Come unto me oh Spirit of the ancient seers
Come now unto me thou companion of the seers of light
Spirits of my kinds that treaded these realms before me
Grant unto me thine eyes to see beyond the times of now
And spare thou me thy ears to hear from the future
Say unto me the mysteries that are hidden
Open unto me the choices of men yet unmade
Thou that knowest tomorrow teach thou me
Thou that seeesth tomorrow show thou me
Beyond the quest for the things of now
I crave to see the things to come
As my destiny and inheritance in the light
Thou that came upon Daniel here am I for thee
Thou that came upon John descend now on me
Thou Spirit that was on Patmos be my guide today
Possess thou me, Spirit of the seers in the light
Open am I unto all thy visions
And unto thy voice I yield this day
Grant thou me the pass to the future thou seeth
Thou Keeper of the ancient doors
-Samson Ajilore 25: 06: ’11,1pm FCT
poem by Samson Ajilore
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From ‘The Soul’s Travelling’
God, God!
With a child’s voice I cry,
Weak, sad, confidingly—
God, God!
Thou knowest, eyelids, raised not always up
Unto Thy love (as none of ours are), droop
As ours, o’er many a tear!
Thou knowest, though Thy universe is broad,
Two little tears suffice to cover all:
Thou knowest, Thou, who art so prodigal
Of beauty, we are oft but stricken deer
Expiring in the woods—that care for none
Of those delightsome flowers they die upon.
O blissful Mouth which breathed the mournful breath
We name our souls, self-spoilt!—by that strong passion
Which paled Thee once with sighs,—by that strong death
Which made Thee once unbreathing—from the wrack
Themselves have called around them, call them back,
Back to Thee in continuous aspiration!
For here, O Lord,
For here they travel vainly,—vainly pass
From city-pavement to untrodden sward,
Where the lark finds her deep nest in the grass
Cold with the earth’s last dew. Yea, very vain
The greatest speed of all these souls of men
Unless they travel upward to the throne
Where sittest THOU, the satisfying ONE,
With help for sins and holy perfectings
For all requirements—while the archangel, raising
Unto Thy face his full ecstatic gazing,
Forgets the rush and rapture of his wings.
poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
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Psalm 23
The Lord, the Lord, my Shepherd is,
And so can never I
Taste misery:
He rests me in green pastures His:
By waters still and sweet,
He guides my feet.
He me revives; leads me the way
Which righteousness doth take,
For his name's sake:
Yea, though I should through valleys stray
Of death's dark shade, I will
No whit fear ill.
For Thou, dear Lord, Thou me besettest
Thy rod and thy staff be
To comfort me:
Before me Thou a table settest,
Even when foe's envious eye
Doth it espy.
Thou oilst my head, Thou fillest my cup;
Nay more, Thou endless good,
Shalt give me food.
To Thee, I say, ascended up,
Where Thou, the Lord of all,
Dost hold thy hall.
poem by Philip Sidney
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Evil borders upon good, and vices are confounded with virtues; as the report of good qualities is delightful to a well-disposed mind, so the relation of the contrary should not be offensive.
quote by Giraldus Cambrensis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Poetic tips — but read my lips
A piece gets writ not ere ‘tis penned,
Poorly or well, hailed or hollered,
To have tried is not to have sinned.
A good one gets born from no good,
Poorly penned better is than no poem,
Get started, fodder is someone's fond food.
A poet, howso good or great,
Has poor poems writ sans number,
Without one, no'ne can a good one create.
It sure does help— a theme of some heft—
Love always is as is death, destiny,
The canvas vast is; nothing need be left.
And yet beware, heftier a theme,
Deeper does lie the devil in details,
What surfaces from bottom is fine cream.
Let not thine pen every nut, bolt explain,
Go ‘head, say what ye do want to say,
Let readers weigh thine labour's pain.
Poetic forms a mere walking aid is,
But learn to walk with and without,
Discard as shackles— soon ere they seize.
A poet does not pen, paints an image
That walks a mile when words weaken,
And wobble O with years of age.
As poet, thou hast a heart thine own,
And it aches unlike any,
Only heads reap seeds by self sown.
A piece with no title to head,
Much like a nameless lost child is,
Lazily fathered, dies when not yet dead.
A poem needs but a thought, a pen,
A blank paper to paint,
But milieu a good Muse is— eight of ten.
Retire to woods, any a place is good,
Let pursuits creative be heart o'er head,
Create an island of solitude.
Even a limerick, dirty or dull,
A good fun is, as good a try,
Dangerous is a longish lull.
One perfect line in a long spell
Though makes it well worth a while,
It makes the rest stand out as hell.
Kiss not away the worst of thine shame,
Nor keep private demons off the page,
Keep an honest pen within prime frame,
And send thine babes to open world
O to put head and heart to test,
Cage is no place for a free bird.
Poetic lines oft do easy flow,
Putting every pea in a perfect pod,
Slog nor struggle, shame's not too slow.
If not a good one, nor e'er great,
Each can a better poet be,
Heed not thine head; let heart ‘lone let.
No promenade on a paved way,
A poem is new path to explore,
O not for long on it to stay!
poem by Aniruddha Pathak (2011)
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Procemion
IN His blest name, who was His own creation,
Who from all time makes making his vocation;
The name of Him who makes our faith so bright,
Love, confidence, activity, and might;
In that One's name, who, named though oft He be,
Unknown is ever in Reality:
As far as ear can reach, or eyesight dim,
Thou findest but the known resembling Him;
How high so'er thy fiery spirit hovers,
Its simile and type it straight discovers
Onward thou'rt drawn, with feelings light and gay,
Where'er thou goest, smiling is the way;
No more thou numbrest, reckonest no time,
Each step is infinite, each step sublime.
-----
WHAT God would outwardly alone control,
And on his finger whirl the mighty Whole?
He loves the inner world to move, to view
Nature in Him, Himself in Nature too,
So that what in Him works, and is, and lives,
The measure of His strength, His spirit gives.
-----
WITHIN us all a universe doth dwell;
And hence each people's usage laudable,
That ev'ry one the Best that meets his eyes
As God, yea e'en his God, doth recognise;
To Him both earth and heaven surrenders he,
Fears Him, and loves Him too, if that may be.
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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Sonnet: A Poet’s Greatness
Most lucky, thou art, O Bard and winged Muse!
After thy death, thy soul remains on earth;
Thy God-giv’n gift- how well thou put to use!
And through thy passionate poems gave mirth.
Maybe, thy stay short wasn’t comfortable,
And thy heart got plunged in sadness so oft;
Maybe, thou had to live in a stable!
In God’s heart, thou shall have a corner soft.
What truths thou writ in poems beauteous!
What good advice thou rendered to live life!
How well thou showed men ought to be righteous!
How soothing balm, thou bestowed men in strife!
O great soul, thine place in Heaven’s assured,
O fisherman of souls, thy rest tho’ measured.
poem by John Celes
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Insult or Compliment?
Thou art the merest popinjay.
A beardless boy not yet a man,
go to thou fool and go thy way.
Go quickly whilst thou still can.
Should my good husband take offence
then he would surely challenge thee.
I would not speak in thy defence
for thy pretensions annoy me.
I’m old enough to be thy dam
I don’t indulge in dalliance,
Methinks thy bravo is all sham.
Get hence, whilst thou still hath the chance.
The youth withdrew a chastened child.
When he had gone the lady smiled.
24-Dec-07
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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