Flute Player
Where is the real bazaar?
I want to buy an eyeful of kindness.
I want to dress my soul in hyperbole.
There's a merchant who brings me
a whole spectrum of leaping colour
from the city of desires.
But here at the bazaar at Khojand,
faces are sour, talk is hot
and I long for the cool sweets of Tabriz.
Where is the real bazaar?
The flute-player tells me:
come with your ears used to insults,
and listen to the light recite a prayer to the dark.
Open your eyes used to pale shame
and see the beauty of Truth.
Where is the real bazaar?
The flute-player is there
calling my heart towards his hat
full of old change, but not a single pearl,
and since I am the jewel in the teardrop
I must go.
Farzaneh Khojandi (f. 1964)
How came this pigmy rabble spun,
After the gods and kings of old,
Upon a tapestry begun
With threads of silver and of gold?
In heaven began the heroic tale
What meaner destinies prevail!
They wove about the antique brow
A circlet of the heavenly air.
To whom is due such reverence now,
The thought "What deity is there"?
We choose the chieftains of our race
From hucksters in the market place.
When in their councils over all
Men set the power that sells and buys,
Be sure the price of life will fall,
Death be more precious in our eyes.
Have all the gods their cycles run?
Has devil worship now begun?
O whether devil planned or no,
Life here is ambushed, this our fate,
That road to anarchy doth go,
This to the grim mechanic state.
The gates of hell are open wide,
But lead to other hells outside.
How has the fire Promethean paled?
Who is there now who wills or dares
Follow the fearless chiefs who sailed,
Celestial adventurers,
Who charted in undreamt of skies
The magic zones of paradise?
Mankind that sought to be god-kind,
To wield the sceptre, wear the crown,
What made it wormlike in its mind?
Who bade it lay the sceptre down?
Was it through any speech of thee,
Misunderstood of Galilee?
The whip was cracked in Babylon
That slaves unto the gods might raise
The golden turrets nigh the sun.
Yet beggars from the dust might gaze
Upon the mighty builders' art
And be of proud uplifted heart.
We now are servile to the mean
Who once were slaves unto the proud.
No lordlier life on earth has been
Although the heart be lowlier bowed.
Is there an iron age to be
With beauty but a memory?
Send forth, who promised long ago,
"I will not leave thee or forsake,"
Someone to whom our hearts may flow
With adoration, though we make
The crucifixion be the sign,
The meed of all the kingly line.
The morning stars were heard to sing
When man towered golden in the prime.
One equal memory let us bring
Before we face our night in time.
Grant us one only evening star,
The iron age's avatar.
AE (George William Russell), 1867-1935
A fig for those by law protected!
Liberty's a glorious feast!
Courts for cowards were erected,
Churches built to please the priest.
What is title, what is treasure,
What is reputation's care?
If we lead a life of pleasure,
'Tis no matter how or where!
A fig for, &c.
With the ready trick and fable,
Round we wander all the day;
And at night in barn or stable,
Hug our doxies on the hay.
A fig for, &c.
Does the train-attended carriage
Thro' the country lighter rove?
Does the sober bed of marriage
Witness brighter scenes of love?
A fig for, &c.
Life is al a variorum,
We regard not how it goes;
Let them cant about decorum,
Who have character to lose.
A fig for, &c.
Here's to budgets, bags and wallets!
Here's to all the wandering train.
Here's our ragged brats and callets,
One and all cry out, Amen!
Chorus
A fig for those by law protected!
Liberty's a glorious feast!
Courts for cowards were erected,
Churches built to please the priest.
Robert Burns (1759-1796), fra The Jolly Beggars
BESTEMMELSENal-Qadr
I den nådige og barmhjertige Guds navn.
Vi sendte den ned i Bestemmelsens nat.
Hvordan kan du vide, hvad Bestemmelsens Nat er?
Bestemmelsens Nat er bedre end tusind måneder.
I den stiger englene og ånden ned med deres Herres tilladelse, angående hver en sag.
Den er fred, indtil daggryet bryder frem.
THE OTHERS
FROM our hidden places
By a secret path,
We come in the moonlight
To the side of the green rath.
There the night through
We take our pleasure,
Dancing to such a measure
As earth never knew.
To song and dance
And lilt without a name,
So sweetly breathed
’Twould put a bird to shame.
And many a young maiden
Is there, of mortal birth,
Her young eyes laden
With dreams of earth.
And many a youth entranced
Moves slowly in the wildered round,
His brave lost feet enchanted,
With the rhythm of faery sound.
Music so forest wild
And piercing sweet would bring
Silence on blackbirds singing
Their best in the ear of spring.
And now they pause in their dancing,
And look with troubled eyes,
Earth straying children
With sudden memory wise.
They pause, and their eyes in the moonlight
With fairy wisdom cold,
Grow dim and a thought goes fluttering
In the hearts no longer old.
And then the dream forsakes them,
And sighing, they turn anew,
As the whispering music takes them,
To the dance of the elfin crew.
O many a thrush and a blackbird
Would fall to the dewy ground,
And pine away in silence
For envy of such a sound.
So the night through
In our sad pleasure,
We dance to many a measure,
That earth never knew.
Seumas O'Sullivan (1879-1958)
I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;
Morn came and went--and came, and brought no day,
And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this their desolation; and all hearts
Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light:
And they did live by watchfires--and the thrones,
The palaces of crowned kings--the huts,
The habitations of all things which dwell,
Were burnt for beacons; cities were consumed,
And men were gathered round their blazing homes
To look once more into each other's face;
Happy were those who dwelt within the eye
Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch:
A fearful hope was all the world contain'd;
Forests were set on fire--but hour by hour
They fell and faded--and the crackling trunks
Extinguish'd with a crash--and all was black.
The brows of men by the despairing light
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits
The flashes fell upon them; some lay down
And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest
Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smiled;
And others hurried to and fro, and fed
Their funeral piles with fuel, and looked up
With mad disquietude on the dull sky,
The pall of a past world; and then again
With curses cast them down upon the dust,
And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd: the wild birds shriek'd,
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground,
And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes
Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl'd
And twined themselves among the multitude,
Hissing, but stingless--they were slain for food.
And War, which for a moment was no more,
Did glut himself again;--a meal was bought
With blood, and each sate sullenly apart
Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left;
All earth was but one thought--and that was death,
Immediate and inglorious; and the pang
Of famine fed upon all entrails--men
Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh;
The meagre by the meagre were devoured,
Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one,
And he was faithful to a corse, and kept
The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay,
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead
Lured their lank jaws; himself sought out no food,
But with a piteous and perpetual moan,
And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand
Which answered not with a caress--he died.
The crowd was famish'd by degrees; but two
Of an enormous city did survive,
And they were enemies: they met beside
The dying embers of an altar-place
Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things
For an unholy usage; they raked up,
And shivering scraped with their cold skeleton hands
The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath
Blew for a little life, and made a flame
Which was a mockery; then they lifted up
Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld
Each other's aspects--saw, and shriek'd, and died--
Even of their mutual hideousness they died,
Unknowing who he was upon whose brow
Famine had written Fiend. The world was void,
The populous and the powerful--was a lump,
Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless--
A lump of death--a chaos of hard clay.
The rivers, lakes, and ocean all stood still,
And nothing stirred within their silent depths;
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,
And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropp'd
They slept on the abyss without a surge--
The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The moon their mistress had expir'd before;
The winds were withered in the stagnant air,
And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need
Of aid from them--She was the Universe.
Lord Byron (1788-1824)
Han kom en nat og banked på.
Jeg åbned husets dør.
Der stod han, mere askegrå
og mere tavs end før.
Jeg bød ham ind. Han stod en stund
med blikket vendt mod mit,
og der stod skrevet om hans mund
om alt han havde lidt.
Og han blev stående og stred
med lidelse og skræk.
Jeg så en tåreløs der græd
og gemte gråden væk.
Så satte han sig, tavs og bleg
som bar han på en dom.
Men bag hans suk var en der skreg
af frygt for det der kom.
Og da han talte stod hvert ord
med byrder af fortræd,
som sank de gennem gravens jord
og tog en verden med.
*
- Jeg bærer på en større dragt,
en byrde mere tung,
end den kan fatte, som blev lagt
i graven, ren og ung.
Der klæber blod ved den du ser,
i angst og rædsel svøbt.
Hans sjæl er kun lidt søndret ler.
Hans liv er dyrekøbt.
Han måtte dræbe for at se
en bedre fremtid gro.
Men den som lod det onde ske
vil aldrig finde ro.
Man bød ham dræbe, bød ham stå
erindringsløs og kold.
Men skæbnens pil skal altid nå
en kriger uden skjold.
Han ville ikke slå ihjæl.
Han stred for livets ret.
Nu bær han ene alles gæld
og alles regnebræt.
*
Vi var så unge. Og vort valg
stod mellem død og vold.
Vi havde ingen tro til salg
og intet krav om sold.
Vor tro var ren. Vi måtte slås
om verden skulle stå
Der var eet liv. Det angik os
og alt vi leved på.
Der var eet liv. Og det var alt.
Vor fremtid - eller død.
Vi valgte kampen da det gjaldt.
Vi kom da livet bød.
Vi ville ikke knæle ned.
Men bag det golde had
lå altid gemt en bøn om fred.
Og det var os der bad.
Vi ville ikke slå ihjæl.
Men hadets beske vin
blev rakt os. Valget lød en kvæld:
Min fremtid - eller din!
*
En aften blev der bragt os bud,
en stikker skulle væk.
Og vi var to som blev valgt ud
og to som tav af skræk.
To drenge græd. To snese år
korsfæstet og forladt.
En ordløs bøn. Et Fader Vor.
Den lange, lange nat.
Forladt, forladt. Og vi skal gå
hvor ingen vej går hen,
før vi kan rejse os og stå
som mennesker igen.
Og mørke minder skal stå frem
og vidne om vort savn,
før vi kan finde vejen hjem
og hviske livets navn.
*
En villavej. Et rødstenshus.
Så meldte vagten klar.
En knitren i det våde grus.
Et ord. Et dæmpet svar.
Den slidte dør. Et messingskilt.
En klokkes skarpe klemt.
Og haven dufter ømt og mildt
som noget man har glemt.
Det brune håndtag. Fuglefløjt.
En solsorts dybe sang.
Og klokken kimer, skarpt og højt
påny, for anden gang.
Så høres skridt. En nøgle slår
i låsens rå metal.
En dør blir åbnet. Og der står
en kvinde, bleg og smal.
Jeg ser et blik hvor frygtens nat
har lagt sit mørke tæt.
En ring af sølv der lyser mat.
En hånd der skælver let.
Et vaskeskind blir drejet hårdt.
Blir gult og næsten hvidt.
Så vender hun sit ansigt bort
mens stemmen taler blidt:
Nej! Hen er ikke hjemme ... Nej!
En solsort i et træ ...
Så går vi ind ... Og nogen skreg
... Og nogen faldt på knæ.
Så går vi ind. Et skrivebord.
To glas med krydret vin.
Den våde duft fra havens jord.
Et blafrende gardin.
To værgeløse hænder strakt
fortæller alt er sandt.
Den endnu varme pibe lagt
på skrivebordets kant.
Så står den kvinde han har kær
og knuger om hans arm.
To mennesker. Hinanden nær.
Og byens fjærne larm.
To grå pistoler. Kvindens skrig.
Påny ... en solsorts sang.
Så strejfer solen, varm og rig,
hans hånd for sidste gang.
Som før. Et skrivebord. En stol.
Et ansigt, blegt og dødt.
Og gennem stuens strejf af sol
går tonende og blødt
et fuglefløjt ... Så skriger hun ...
En kjole farves rød ...
Så tier mer end hendes mund.
Så tier hendes død.
*
- Jeg slog ihjæl! Men livet slår
ihjæl hver levet dag.
Jeg dør hver nat når angsten går
igennem hjærtets slag.
Vi stred for livet. Mange faldt.
Og mange ærer dem.
De sover trygt. Men jeg blev kaldt.
for livets dommer frem.
For jeg er den hvis hånd blev brugt
og den hvis sjæl blev dømt.
Og jeg er den I drev på flugt
da sejrens skål var tømt.
Jeg blev en kriger uden skjold
i de forrådtes hær.
Jeg står med livet i behold.
I står med bødlens sværd!
*
Det banker hårdt på husets dør.
Jeg åbner lås og slå.
Der står han, mere tavs end før
og mere askegrå.
En skygge strejfer seng og bord.
En kulde når min ven.
Og jeg har ingen trøstens ord
at sætte op mod den.
Og jeg har ingen bøn for ham
og ingen trøst at gi.
Jeg sidder med en ordløs skam
fordi jeg selv gik fri.
Han tier. Og jeg ser ham gå.
Så smækker husets dør.
Jeg sidder mere askegrå
og mere tavs end før.
Halfdan Rasmussen (1915-2002)
Publikationen på Modspil.dk er tilegnet de danske soldater i Afghanistan og Irak.
His head within my bosom lay,
But yet his spirit slipped not through:
I only felt the burning clay
That withered for the cooling dew.
It was but pity when I spoke
And called him to my heart for rest,
And half a mother's love that woke
Feeling his head upon my breast:
And half the lion's tenderness
To shield her cubs from hurt or death,
Which, when the serried hunters press,
Makes terrible her wounded breath.
But when the lips I breathed upon
Asked for such love as equals claim--
I looked where all the stars were gone
Burned in the day's immortal flame.
"Come thou like yon great dawn to me
From darkness vanquished, battles done:
Flame unto flame shall flow and be
Within thy heart and mine as one."
George William Russell (1867-1935)
WE ARE TRANSMITTERS
As we live, we are transmitters of life.
And when we fail to transmit life, life fails to flow through us.
That is part of the mystery of sex, it is a flow onwards.
Sexless people transmit nothing.
And if, as we work, we can transmit life into our work,
life, still more life, rushes into us to compensate, to be ready
and we ripple with life through the days.
Even if it is a woman making an apple dumpling, or a man a stool,
if life goes into the pudding, good is the pudding
good is the stool,
content is the woman, with fresh life rippling in to her,
content is the man.
Give, and it shall be given unto you
is still the truth about life.
But giving life is not so easy.
It doesn't mean handing it out to some mean fool, or letting the living dead eat you up.
It means kindling the life-quality where it was not,
even if it's only in the whiteness of a washed pocket-handkerchief.
D.H. Lawrence (1885-1930)
My body is not your battleground
My breasts are neither wells nor mountains,
neither Badr nor Uhud
My breasts do not want to lead revolutions
nor to become prisoners of war
My breasts seek amnesty: release them
so I can glory in their milktipped fullness,
so I can offer them to my sweet love
without your flags and banners on them
My body is not your battleground
My hair is neither sacred nor cheap,
neither the cause of your disarray
nor the path to your liberation
My hair will not bring progress and clean water
if it flies unbraided in the breeze
It will not save us from our attackers
if it is wrapped and shielded from the sun
Untangle your hands from my hair
so I can comb and delight in it,
so I can honor and annoint it,
so I can spill it over the chest of my sweet love
My body is not your battleground
My private garden is not your tillage
My thighs are not highway lanes to your Golden City
My belly is not the store of your bushels of wheat
My womb is not the cradle of your soldiers,
not the ship of your journey to the homeland
Leave me to discover the lakes
that glisten in my green forests
and to understand the power of their waters
Leave me to fill or not fill my chalice
with the wine or honey of my sweet love
Is it your skin that will tear when the head of the new world emerges?
My Body is not Your Battleground
How dare you put your hand
where I have not given permission
Has God, then, given you permission
to put your hand there?
My body is not your battleground
Withdraw from the eastern fronts and the western
Withdraw these armaments and this siege
so that I may prepare the earth
for the new age of lilac and clover,
so that I may celebrate this spring
the pageant of beauty with my sweet love.
Mohja Kahf (via, fra samlingen Emails from Scheherazad).
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