Saturday, January 28, 2017

Rumi - Prologue "Masnavi i Ma'navi"





THE SPIRITUAL COUPLETS
OF MAULANA JALALU-’D-DlN MUHAMMAD RUMI

Book I.
PROLOGUE.

HEARKEN to the reed-flute, how it complains,
Lamenting its banishment from its home:

“Ever since they tore me from my osier bed,
My plaintive notes have moved men and women to tears.
I burst my breast, striving to give vent to sighs,
And to express the pangs of my yearning for my home.
He who abides far away from his home
Is ever longing for the day he shall return.
My wailing is heard in every throng,
In concert with them that rejoice and them that weep.
Each interprets my notes in harmony with his own feelings,
But not one fathoms the secrets of my heart.
My secrets are not alien from my plaintive notes,
Yet they are not manifest to the sensual eye and ear.
Body is not veiled from soul, neither soul from body,
Yet no man hath ever seen a soul.”

This plaint of the flute is fire, not mere air.
Let him who lacks this fire be accounted dead!
‘Tis the fire of love that inspires the flute,
‘Tis the ferment of love that possesses the wine.
The flute is the confidant of all unhappy lovers;
Yea, its strains lay bare my inmost secrets.
Who hath seen a poison and an antidote like the flute?
Who hath seen a sympathetic consoler like the flute?
The flute tells the tale of love’s bloodstained path,
It recounts the story of Majnun’s love toils.
None is privy to these feelings save one distracted,
As ear inclines to the whispers of the tongue.
Through grief my days are as labor and sorrow,
My days move on, hand in hand with anguish.
Yet,, though my days vanish thus, ‘tis no matter,
Do thou abide, O Incomparable Pure One!

But all who are not fishes are soon tired of water;
And they who lack daily bread find the day very long;
So the “Raw” comprehend not the state of the “Ripe;”
Therefore it behoves me to shorten my discourse.

Arise, O son! burst thy bonds and be free!
How long wilt thou be captive to silver and gold?
Though thou pour the ocean into thy pitcher,
It can hold no more than one day’s store.
The pitcher of the desire of the covetous never fills,
The oyster-shell fills not with pearls till it is content;
Only he whose garment is rent by the violence of love
Is wholly pure from covetousness and sin.

Hail to thee, then, O LOVE, sweet madness!
Thou who healest all our infirmities!
Who art the physician of our pride and self-conceit!
Who art our Plato and our Galen!
Love exalts our earthly bodies to heaven,
And makes the very hills to dance with joy!
O Iover, ‘twas love that gave life to Mount Sinai,
When “it quaked, and Moses fell down in a swoon.”
Did my Beloved only touch me with his lips,
I too, like the flute, would burst out in melody.
But he who is parted from them that speak his tongue,
Though he possess a hundred voices, is perforce dumb.
When the rose has faded and the garden is withered,
The song of the nightingale is no longer to be heard.
The BELOVED is all in all, the lover only veils Him;
The BELOVED is all that lives, the lover a dead thing.
When the lover feels no longer LOVE’s quickening,
He becomes like a bird who has lost its wings. Alas!
How can I retain my senses about me,
When the BELOVED shows not the light of His countenance?

LOVE desires that this secret should be revealed,
Knowest thou why thy mirror reflects not?
Because the rust has not been scoured from its face.
If it were purified from all rust and defilement,
It would reflect the shining of the SUN Of GOD.

O friends, ye have now heard this tale,
Which sets forth the very essence of my case.
For if a mirror reflects not, of what use is it?


 "Masnavi i Ma'navi" PDF

Friday, January 27, 2017

Irina Tweedie - Beyond the Beyond



Into my life You came like a storm of monsoon
banging down from the eastern sky.
And You scattered me, like the wind disperses
dry grass and the petals of flowers.
Out of myself You scattered me into Nothingness,
Beyond the Nowhere, beyond the Beyond.

~ from DAUGHTER OF FIRE by Irina Tweedie

Daughter of Fire: An Interview with Irina Tweedie: 

HERE 

 


Tuesday, January 24, 2017

Rupert Spira - Advaita


Advaita, Non-Duality, is not a bland whitewashing
of all the individual elements in each of our characters.
In fact, it is rather the opposite.
‘Individual’ means undivided.
Individuality is the unique expression of the undivided whole,
which each body/ mind expresses, and it tends to flourish
rather than diminish when we are relieved of the straitjacket of ignorance
–that is, when we stop ignoring our Self.
Similarly, Non-Duality is not an immunisation against feeling.
In fact, it is the opposite.
It is complete openness, sensitivity, vulnerability and availability.
Actually, suffering is our resistance to feeling, rather than a feeling itself.
So we don’t try to use this Understanding.
We allow it to use us.
We allow it to shape our life.
We don’t put it into another straitjacket and dictate how it should operate.
Consciousness is absolute Freedom.
We allow this Freedom to express itself as it will,
how it will, where it will and when it will.
In one body/ mind this might take the shape of a character
that is quiet and sensitive, whilst in another
it may express itself in a wild and exuberant way.
We should not be misled by appearances.
It is the attitude of inner freedom that is the hallmark of Understanding,
and this attitude of inner freedom
uses all possible means of expression and communication.

Rupert Spira

From the transparency of things

 

Sunday, January 22, 2017

Chuck Surface - Drooling mind



It's most upsetting.

My roommate, the mind, was quite happy.
All was understood,
And could be explained
With such diamond-like clarity,
To anyone who asked.

Oh… and how he loved reading,
Learning more, and more,
Gaining greater and greater “knowledge”,
Deeper and deeper “understanding”,
Articulating ever more clearly,
Respected and admired.

And then… She came,
Plying him with The Wine,
Of Dissolution and Bliss.
And I watched, helplessly,
As my friend became a Fool.
Neglecting everything…
Dreamy-eyed...

For Her.

I actually found him one day,
Intoxicated,
Head on the curb,
Drooling concepts, theories, and conjecture.

Just pathetic.

As I gathered him up,
To hide his shame from passers by,
He could only mutter, “my Love”, “my Own”.
Until he swooned, again… lost.
And Everything poured out of him, instead of in.

He'll never live this down.

He still lives with me,
But we seldom talk anymore.
He wants only to speak of Her,
But the mindless fool...

Can find no words. 




Jiddu Krishnamurti - The book of life