Ghazal 495

Drink wine and spread flowers
Of Fate what do you seek?
The rose said in early hours
Nightingale, what do you speak?

In the garden take your seat
Both Beloved & bearer greet
Breath in flowers and wine replete
Lip to lip and cheek to cheek

Let flowers strut their stuff
In the garden sing and laugh
And call the spruce's bluff
Let your stature rise and peak

The Rose bud's smiling face
Whose attention will it grace
Whom do you wish to embrace
O Rose bud, tender & meek?

In the marketplace today
Your buyers willingly pay
Be alert and stash away
Riches in your lucky streak

The candle flame of Goodness
The wind of Fate will caress
Commit and your art bless
With goodness shine and reek

Each curl of your hair
Is priceless and so rare
Seek joy and joy spare
And gently take a peek

In the garden of the King
Birds use their feather & beak
Nightingales gaily sing
Hafiz, the poetic geek

-Hafiz

Sonnet 59

If there be nothing new, but that which is
Hath been before, how are our brains beguiled,
Which, labouring for invention, bear amiss
The second burden of a former child!
O, that record could with a backward look,
Even of five hundred courses of the sun,
Show me your image in some antique book,
Since mind at first in character was done!
That I might see what the old world could say
To this composed wonder of your frame;
Whether we are mended, or whether better they,
Or whether revolution be the same.
O, sure I am, the wits of former days
To subjects worse have given admiring praise.

-William Shakespeare

Whilst it is prime

FRESH Spring, the herald of loves mighty king,
In whose cote-armour richly are displayd
All sorts of flowers, the which on earth do spring,
In goodly colours gloriously arrayd--
Goe to my love, where she is carelesse layd,
Yet in her winters bowre not well awake;
Tell her the joyous time wil not be staid,
Unlesse she doe him by the forelock take;
Bid her therefore her selfe soone ready make,
To wayt on Love amongst his lovely crew;
Where every one, that misseth then her make,
Shall be by him amearst with penance dew.
Make hast, therefore, sweet love, whilest it is prime;
For none can call againe the passed time.

-Edmund Spenser

Life

What is our life? A play of passion,
Our mirth the music of division,
Our mother's wombs the tiring-houses be,
Where we are dressed for this short comedy.
Heaven the judicious sharp spectator is,
That sits and marks still who doth act amiss.
Our graves that hide us from the setting sun
Are like drawn curtains when the play is done.
Thus march we, playing, to our latest rest,
Only we die in earnest, that's no jest.

-Sir Walter Raleigh

A dream within a dream

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow--
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand--
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep--while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

-Edgar Allen Poe

Infruset

Skarp som nordanstormen,
allas kamp mot alla
kyler genom märgen
och gör hjärtan kalla.

Det som lövomrankat
lyste varmt i solen
liknar snart en boning
på en ö vid polen.

Men ännu där inne
milda känslor bygga,
sitta där och sörja,
lutande och skygga.

Stundom de med möda
kylans fjättrar skaka,
vilja ut, men stappla
frysande tillbaka.

Kampens bistra frostvind
isar allt det varma,
alltför kallt är livet
för de veka arma.

Längre lider vintern,
kortare blir dagen,
mörkare blir mörkret,
blekare bli dragen.

Tills de milda känslor
alla ligga döde
i sitt hem vid polen
tigande och öde.

Om en fångstman kommer
vindvräkt över haven,
mötes han av ingen
i den tysta graven.

-Gustaf Fröding

En tanke

Med vinden blåser min
enda tanke bort.
Tomhet,
älskade tomhet.
Att vara full av storm
och sedan ingenting.

Vila, en källa till vila
med öppna ögon.
Drömmar,
närande drömmar.
Sedan vaken från stiltje
mot verklighetens ljus.

Må stormen alltid skapa
vindil runt min
surrande uppriktighet
och resa mitt fundament
så att det inte rasar samman
och att min vilande tanke
bara just blir

en tanke.

-Göran Hansson

Lycklig den

Lycklig den, med sorgfritt hjärta fridsamt hälsar morgonen
och förutan ångerns smärta återskådar aftonen!

Lycklig den, vars levnad flyter bäckens lugna bölja lik
och, fast lyckans ynnest tryter, är av egna dygder rik!

Lycklig den, som orädd lyder, när hans sista timma slår,
och vars grav en blomma pryder, vattnad av en ömhets-tår!

-Anna Maria Lenngren

If

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 on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe 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!

-Rudyard Kipling

Glädjens ögonblick

Sörj ej den gryende dagen förut.
Njut av den flyende varje minut.
Rosornas doft,
druvornas ånga,
skynda att fånga:
yngling! de vissna — du själv är ett stoft.

Fatta det blinkande glaset förnöjd.
Sjung om den vinkande kärlekens fröjd.
Men då du ler,
munter för dagen,
skräm ej behagen;
flydda en gång, de ej följa dig mer.

Drick ur den sparade ungdomens bål,
drick den bevarade oskuldens skål.
Glädje och dygd
elda varannan.
Kransad om pannan,
visheten skämtar i vinrankans skygd.

Klinga med roliga vänner i lag.
Tryck den förtroliga handen i dag.
Kanske du den
aldrig mer trycker:
härjaren rycker
brud ifrån brudgum och vän ifrån vän.

Glad må du somna i graven, du ock;
känslorna domna i tiden ändock.
Efter en kväll,
måttligen njuten,
hjärtligen sluten,
sover man roligt och vaknar man säll.

-Frans Michael Franzén

På moln stod du

På moln stod du! Jord voro dina fötter och din
tanke räckte upp till Gud!
Dina ögon slog du upp och var atom i ditt sinne
var en skapelse.
Du sträckte ut din hand och sade: vad är du?
och det var luft.
Och din ande gick ut och du såg stjärnor och
solar fara förbi som moln
Och du ropade: himmelen stod under Guds fötter.
Och därovan var mörker dit ingen hann och du
visste din moders liv och du önskade en kvinna.
Och en poppel stod grön i det innersta av ditt öga
och din storhet försvann och du låg som en tår
på din egen fot i din egen glans
och molnet var försvunnet.

-Josef Julius Wecksell

A Golden Day

The subtle beauty of this day
Hangs o'er me like a fairy spell,
And care and grief have flown away,
And every breeze sings, "all is well."
I ask, "Holds earth or sin, or woe?"
My heart replies, "I do not know."

Nay! all we know, or feel, my heart,
Today is joy undimmed, complete;
In tears or pain we have no part;
The act of breathing is so sweet,
We care no higher joy to name.
What reck we now of wealth or fame?

The past--what matters it to me?
The pain it gave has passed away.
The future--that I cannot see!
I care for nothing save today--
This is a respite from all care,
And trouble flies--I know not where.

Go on, oh noisy, restless life!
Pass by, oh, feet that seek for heights!
I have no part in aught of strife;
I do not want your vain delights.
The day wraps round me like a spell
And every breeze sings, "All is well."

-Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Romance

Romance, who loves to nod and sing
With drowsy head and folded wing
Among the green leaves as they shake
Far down within some shadowy lake,
To me a painted paroquet
Hath been—most familiar bird—
Taught me my alphabet to say,
To lisp my very earliest word
While in the wild wood I did lie,
A child—with a most knowing eye.

Of late, eternal condor years
So shake the very Heaven on high
With tumult as they thunder by,
I have no time for idle cares
Through gazing on the unquiet sky;
And when an hour with calmer wings
Its down upon my spirit flings,
That little time with lyre and rhyme
To while away—forbidden things—
My heart would feel to be a crime
Unless it trembled with the strings.

-Edgar Allan Poe

Annu!

Det är ej borta, som du trodde,
De ljufva toners fria val;
Det bor ännu, som förr det bodde,
I själens djup en näktergal.

När sorgen höljde fogelburen,
Han trodde genast, det var natt
Och död och vinter i naturen,
Och sörjande och stum han satt.

Men snart, o snart af ömma händer
Skall floret lyftas bort en dag,
Och ljus och glädje återvänder
Med tusen nya toners slag.

An är ej ålderns skymning inne,
Än är det sol i grönklädd dal,
Än är du ung till själ och sinne,
Och du skall qväda, näktergal!

-C. D. af Wirsen

In this world

In this world
we walk on the roof of hell,
gazing at flowers.

-Kobayashi Issa

Sonnet 60

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end;
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,
Crooked elipses 'gainst his glory fight,
And Time that gave doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow,
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:
And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand,
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.

-William Shakespeare

Jigsaw puzzles and you

There were long hyphens in our day-
When no one spoke; no one exhaled

As we contemplated the broken puzzles-
The broken tiles all over the floor

Some might have called us mad-
Insane- in this ceramic nightmare

Of yoga knees and bloody feet-
Empty bottles scattered on a garden mat

And still we persevered-
With our buckets of glue and fingers of paste

Figuring how to fit ourselves into this chaos-
Of porcelain folly and jaded beliefs

This irksome chaos of so-called matrimony-
This well-earned puzzle that some call LOVE.

-Anastasia Clark

Today is sunday

Today is Sunday.
For the first time they took me out into the sun today.
And for the first time in my life I was aghast
that the sky is so far away
and so blue
and so vast
I stood there without a motion.
Then I sat on the ground with respectful devotion
leaning against the white wall.
Who cares about the waves with which I yearn to roll
Or about strife or freedom or my wife right now.
The soil, the sun and me...
I feel joyful and how.

-Nazim Hikmet

En strimma hav

Det är en strimma hav, som glimmar grå
vid himlens rand,
den har en mörkblå vägg,
som liknar land,
det är där min längtan vilar
innan den flyger hem.

-Edith Södergran

I wandered lonely as a cloud

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling leaves in glee;
A poet could not be but gay,
In such a jocund company!
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

-William Wordsworth

Själen i norden

O dessa mörka skogar inom oss
där jättarna slumra.
Det som vi kallar själen
är bara en vandrande solfläck
under träden, en uthuggning
dit det snedställda ljuset når.

-Werner Aspenström

People who live

People who live by the sea
understand eternity.
They copy the curves of the waves,
their hearts beat with the tides,
& the saltiness of their blood
corresponds with the sea.

They know that the house of flesh
is only a sandcastle
built on the shore,
that skin breaks
under the waves
like sand under the soles
of the first walker on the beach
when the tide recedes.

Each of us walks there once,
watching the bubbles
rise up through the sand
like ascending souls,
tracing the line of the foam,
drawing our index fingers
along the horizon
pointing home.

-Erica Jong

Sommar i bergen

Enkel är bergens sommar;
ängen blommar,
den gamla gården ler
och bäckens dunkla brus talar om funnen lycka.

-Edith Södergran

Bird on the wire

Like a bird on the wire,
like a drunk in a midnight choir
I have tried in my way to be free.
Like a worm on a hook,
like a knight from some old fashioned book
I have saved all my ribbons for thee.
If I, if I have been unkind,
I hope that you can just let it go by.
If I, if I have been untrue
I hope you know it was never to you.
Like a baby, stillborn,
like a beast with his horn
I have torn everyone who reached out for me.
But I swear by this song
and by all that I have done wrong
I will make it all up to thee.
I saw a beggar leaning on his wooden crutch,
he said to me, "You must not ask for so much."
And a pretty woman leaning in her darkened door,
she cried to me, "Hey, why not ask for more?"
Oh like a bird on the wire,
like a drunk in a midnight choir
I have tried in my way to be free.

-Leonard Cohen

Count that day lost

If you sit down at set of sun
And count the acts that you have done,
And, counting, find
One self-denying deed, one word
That eased the heart of him who heard,
One glance most kind
That fell like sunshine where it went --
Then you may count that day well spent.

But if, through all the livelong day,
You've cheered no heart, by yea or nay --
If, through it all
You've nothing done that you can trace
That brought the sunshine to one face--
No act most small
That helped some soul and nothing cost --
Then count that day as worse than lost.

-George Eliot

Grace

This air is flooded with her. I am a boy again, and my mother
and I lie on wet grass, laughing. She startles, turns to
marigolds at my side, saying beautiful, and I can see the red
there is in them.

When she would fall into her thoughts, we'd look for what
distracted her from us.

My mother's gone again as suddenly as ever and, seven months
after the funeral, I go dancing. I am becoming grateful.
Breathing, thinking, marigolds.

-Forrest Hamer

Landing under water, I see roots

All the things we hide in water
hoping we won't see them go—
(forests growing under water
press against the ones we know)—

and they might have gone on growing
and they might now breathe above
everything I speak of sowing
(everything I try to love).

-Annie Finch

Small breaths

No matter that my heart sinks,
sighs, with the weight of skeletons-

paths I forgot to follow
have slowly sealed

rooms go unrecognised
for fear of change

and I cry at the uncertainty of rainbows.

All the daydreams I stole,
refusing to give them back

are stored as silver dust
and each day is a small breath.

-Eileen Carney Hulme

Home

I came back late and tired last night
Into my little room,
To the long chair and the firelight
And comfortable gloom.

But as I entered softly in
I saw a woman there,
The line of neck and cheek and chin,
The darkness of her hair,
The form of one I did not know
Sitting in my chair.

I stood a moment fierce and still,
Watching her neck and hair.
I made a step to her; and saw
That there was no one there.

It was some trick of the firelight
That made me see her there.
It was a chance of shade and light
And the cushion in the chair.

Oh, all you happy over the earth,
That night, how could I sleep?
I lay and watched the lonely gloom;
And watched the moonlight creep
From wall to basin, round the room,
All night I could not sleep.

-Rupert Brooke

Sonnet 146

Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth,
[ ] these rebel powers that thee array;
Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth,
Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?
Why so large cost, having so short a lease,
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,
Eat up thy charge? is this thy body's end?
Then soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss,
And let that pine to aggravate thy store;
Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;
Within be fed, without be rich no more:
So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men,
And Death once dead, there's no more dying then.

-William Shakespeare