the April raindrop

*

رموز بی خودی

*

That a Good Communal Character Derives from

Discipline According to the Manners of the Prophet

&

A mendicant like Fate inexorable

Battered upon our door incessantly;

Enraged, I broke a stave upon his head,

And all the harvest of his beggary

Spilled from his hands. In youth’s beginning days

The reason thinks not upon right and wrong.

My father, by my temper much distressed,

Grew very pale; the tulips of his cheeks

Withered; an anguished sigh sprang from his lips;

A star gleamed in his eye, brief glittering

Upon his lashes, and then slowly fell.

And as a bird that in the time of Fall

Trembles within his nest when dawn blows chill,

So in my flesh shivered my heedless soul;

The Laila of my patience now no more [84]

Rode peacefully the litter of my heart.

And then my father spoke: “Upon that morn

The people of the Best of Messengers

Are gathered up before the Lord of All,

Warriors of his pure Community

And guardians of his Wisdom’s loveliness,

Martyrs who proved the Faith – all these like stars

Shall shine within that peopled firmament;

Ascetics too, and they that loved their God

With anguished hearts, and scholars erudite,

And shamefast rebels against God’s commands.

Then in the midst of that great company

This suffering beggar’s cries shall mount on high.

O thou condemned to tread an arduous road

Unmounted, footsore, what am I to say

When this Prophet asks me: ‘God to thee

Commited a young Muslim, and he won

No portion of instruction from my school;

What, was this labour too, too hard for thee,

So that that heap of clay became not man?’”

So gentle was my noble sire’s reproof

That I was torn by shame and hope and fear:

“Reflect a little, son, and bring to mind

The last great gathering of the Prophet’s fold;

Look once again on my white hairs, and see

How now I tremble between fear and hope;

Do not thy father this foul injury,

O put him not to shame before his Lord!”

Thou art a bud burst from Muhammad’s branch;

Break into bloom before the genial breeze

Of his warm Spring; win thee the scent and hue

Of that sweet season; strive to gain for thee

Some fragment of his character sublime.

Well said great Rumi, guide in whose shrunk drop

An ocean of deep wisdom slumbereth:

“Snap not the thread of thy brief days from him [85]

Who was the Seal of Prophets; little trust

In thy poor craft and faltering footsteps place.”

The nature of the Muslim through and through

Is lovingkindness; with both hand and tongue

He strives to be a mercy in the world,

As he whose fingers split the moon in twain

Embraces in his mercy all mankind.

Noble was he, in every attribute;

Thou art no member of our company

If from his station thou departest far.

Bird of our garden, one in song and tongue

With us, if thou dost own a melody

Carol it not alone, nor let it soar

But on a branch that in our garden grows.

Whatever thing has capital of life

Dies in an uncongenial element;

Art thou a nightingale? Fly in the mead,

And with thy fellow-minstrels meditate

Thy song. Art thou an eagle? Do not live

At ocean’s bottom; in the solitude

Of the unpeopled desert make thy home.

Art thou a star? Shine in thy firmament,

Nor set thy foot beyond thy proper bounds.

If thou wilt take a drop of April shower

And nurture it within the garden’s close

Till, like the dew of the abounding Spring,

A rosebud takes it to its near embrace,

Then, in the rays of heaven-glittering dawn

Whose magic knots the blossoms on the branch,

Thou shalt draw out the lucent element

Within its substance, all the ecstasy

Of leaping in its trembling particles.

What is thy jewel? But a watery wave;

What is thy effort? Naught save a mirage.

Hurl it to ocean, that it may become

A jewel gleaming like a tremulous star.

The April raindrop, banished from the sea,

Dies on the cornstalk with the morning dew.

The pure clay of the Muslim is a gem;

Its lustre and its radiance derive

Out of the Prophet’s ocean. Come thou, then,

Brief April shower, come into his breast,

And issue from his mighty sea, a pearl!

Outshine the sun upon this shadowy world,

And glow forever in immortal light.

*

That the Life of the Community Requires a Visible

Focus, and that the Focus of the Islamic Community

is Mecca’s Sacred House

&

Now I will loose for thee the knotted cord

That is Life’s riddle, and reveal to thee

Life’s mysteries; its trade, from Self to leap

Swift as a phantom, nimbly to escape

From the constriction of Dimension’s grasp.

Then how comes Life into this world of late

And soon? How does its instant time give birth

To yesterdays and morrows? Look upon

Thyself, if thou possessest eyes to see;

Fool, art thou aught but constantly aleap?

So, to display its glow invisible

Life’s torch contrived a curtain of its smoke,

And that its motion might be seen at peace,

Life’s furnace drew its breath, forthwith became

A tulip, and burst blooming from the branch.

Thy thought is immature, lame, slow to rise,

If thou suppose the mortal flower itself

The fleeting colour. Life is not a bird

A-building nests; ’tis but a wing of hue

And wholly flight; imprisoned in the cage,

Yet ever free; lamenteth as it sings;

Washeth each moment from its wing the will

To fly, yet ever seeks new stratagems

Itself devising; bindeth knot on knot

Its own affairs, yet with consummate ease

Resolveth all its problems. Swift-paced Life

Stands rooted in the mire, that it may feel

Pulsing a doubled joy to walk abroad.

Anthems unheard lie dormant in its flame;

To-morrow, yesterday, the children are

Of its to-day. Each moment it creates

Fresh difficulties, passing freely through

Thus, instantly its task is ever new.

Though like a scent it is all will to leap,

When in the breast it maketh its abode

It is a breath. Upon itself it spins

Its threads, becomes a skein, and knots itself.

The seed, that holdeth knotted in its grain

The leaf and fruit, in good time openeth

Its eyes upon itself, and is a tree;

Creating out of water and of clay

A garment, it revealeth hand and foot,

Eye, yea, and heart. Life chooseth to confine

Itself within the body’s solitude,

And Life createth mighty companies.

Such is the law that governeth the birth

Of nations. Life gathereth on a point

Of focus which, related to the ring,

Is as the spirit hidden in the flesh,

The track of the circumference concealed

Within the centre. Peoples win their bond

And order from a focus, and that same

Perpetuates the nation’s sum of days.

The Sacred House at once our secret is

And guardian of our secret, our heart’s fire

And instrument whereon our passion plays.

We are a breath nurtured within its breast;

The body we, and it the precious soul.

Our garden glitters joyous in its dew,

Our fields are watered from its holy well.

Its dancing motes give lustre to the sun

Plunging into its firmament profound.

We are the proof that justifies its claim,

Attestors witnessing for Abraham.

This made our voices loud upon the earth,

Stiched up with Time our Pre-eternity;

In circumambulation of its shrine

Our pure Community draws common breath,

Dawn’s sun encaged; by its arithmetic

The many count as one, and in that tie

Of oneness thy self-mastery waxes strong.

Thou livest by a sanctuary’s bond

And shalt endure, so long as thou shalt go

About the shrine thereof. Upon this earth

By congregation lives a people’s soul,

And congregation is the mystery

Of Mecca’s power. Take heed once again,

Enlightened Muslim, by the tragic fate

Of Moses’ people, who, when they gave up

Their focus from their grasp, the thread was snapped

That bound their congregation each to each.

That nation, nurtured up upon the breast

Of God’s apostles, and whereof the part

Was privy to the secrets of the whole,

Suddenly smitten by the hand of Time

Poured out its lifeblood in slow agony.

The tendrils of its vine are withered now,

Nor even any willow weeping grows

More from its soil; exile has robbed its tongue

Of common speech; both nest and birdsong gone;

The candle out; dead the lamenting moth –

My poor dust trembles at the history.

O thou, sore wounded by the sword of Fate,

Prisoner of confusion, doubt, dismay,

Wrap thee in pilgrim robes; unshroud the dawn

Of night’s dark dust. Plunge, as thy forebears did,

Into prostration; lose thyself, until

Thou art entire prostration. Long ago

The Muslim fashioned meek humility

And thence developed a world-shaking pride;

Upon God’s path the thorn-points pierced his feet;

He wore a rose-bower in his turban’s fold.

*

That True Solidarity Consists in Adopting a Fixed

Communal Objective, and that the Objective of the

Muhammadan Community is the Preservation and

Propagation of Unitarianism

&

And now I will impart to thee the tongue

Of all things that have being; in this speech

The letters and articulated sounds

Are life’s activities. When life is bound

In firm attachment to an aim professed

The opening verse rises spontaneously;

And if that purpose serves us for a goad,

Swift as the tempest gallopeth our steed.

The goal avowed is the true mystery

Of life’s continuance, that focuses

The restless flow of its mercurial powers.

When life is conscious of a purposed aim,

All means material yield to its control;

It makes its self the follower of that goal,

For its sole sake collects, selects, rejects.

The helmsman shoreward bound resolves to sail

The flooding main; the destination far

Determines the selection of the paths.

The moth’s heart bears the brand of the delight

Of burning, for which joy it flutters still

About the candle. If the madman Qais [86]

Was wanderer in the wilderness, his aim

Was the high litter wherein Laila rode.

Now be our Laila but familiar

With cities, never shall we lift our tread

To span the desert. In the enterprise

The purpose lies as hidden as the soul

Within the body, and from this alone

Each labour takes its quality and size.

The blood that circulateth in our veins

The nimbler moveth, having the desire

To reach a goal; life’s self consumes itself

In that bright flame, aglow with tulip-fire.

The Goal is as a plectrum, that awakes

The hidden music in the instrument

Of high ambition, an attractive point

Whereunto moves all centripetal force;

This stirs a people’s hands and feet to move

In vital unison, one vision clear

Bestowing on a hundred several sights.

Be the mad lover of the loveliness

Of noble purpose; flutter like a moth

About this ardent lamp. Sweet was the air

Qum’s music-maker sang, the silken strings

Sweeping responsive to his pulsing thought:

“While yet the traveller bends to pluck the thorn [87]

That pricks his foot, the litter vanishes.”

If thou art heedless, but for one brief breath,

A hundred leagues thou strayest from thy stage.

This ancient creature, that men call the world,

Out of the mingling of the elements

Derived its body; a hundred reed-beds sowed

That one lament might burgeon; bathed in blood

A hundred meads, to yield one tulip-bloom.

Many the shapes it fetched and cast and broke

To grave upon Life’s tablet thy design;

Many laments it sowed in the soul’s tilth

Till sprang the music of one call to prayer.

Awhile it battled sternly with the free,

And had much traffic with false lords, at last

To strew the seed of faith in the heart’s soil

And on the tongue to cry -There is One God.

No other god but God- – this is the point

On which the world concentrically turns,

This the conclusion of the world’s affairs.

From this the sphere derives its strength to wheel,

The sun its constancy and brilliance,

The sea her gems, created of its glow,

That set the ocean’s billows quivering.

This is the breeze that fans the earth to bloom,

This rapturous glow a few poor feathers flames

Into the nightingale; and this same fire

Runs like a torch along the vineyard’s veins

And glitters crimson in the dusty bowl.

In Being’s instrument its melodies

Lie hidden; O musician, Being’s lute

Seeketh for thee; within thy body flow

A hundred songs, as freely in thy veins

The lifeblood pulses; rise, and smite the strings!

-Allahu Akbar!- This the secret holds

Of thy existence; wherefore let it be

Thy purpose to preserve and propagate

-No other god.- If thou a Muslim art,

Till all the world proclaims the Name of God

Thou canst not rest one moment. Knowest thou not

The verse in Holy Scripture, calling thee

To be -a people just, God’s witnesses?- [88]

Thou art the glow and glory of the days,

And made to testify to all mankind;

To all who comprehend the weight of words

Make general proclamation, and impart

The learned gospel of God’s Messenger.

Unlettered was he, -innocent of guile [89]

The words he uttered-, that elucidate

The mystery -He did not go astray-. [90]

Yet, when he held the pulse of living things,

The secrets of Life’s constitution he

Forthwith revealed, and cleansed of ancient blight

The garment of the tulips of this mead.

Life here below is bound up with his Faith

Nor can survive, save guarded by his Law.

Having his Book beneath thy arm, stride out

With greater boldness to the battlefield

Of works; for human thought, idolatrous

And idol-fashioning, is all the time

In quest of some new image; in these days

It follows once again old Azar’s trade, [91]

And man creates an ever novel god

Whose joy is shedding blood, whose hallowed name

Is Colour, Fatherland, Blood-Brotherhood.

Humanity is slaughtered like a sheep

Before this worthless idol. Thou, whose lips

Have touched the sacred bowl of Abraham,

Whose blood is ardent with his holy wine,

Against this falsehood, garmented as truth,

Lift now the blade -There is not aught but God-

And smite! The days are shrouded all in mirk;

Display thy lift, and let -the thing in thee- [92]

Perfected shine o’er all humanity.

I tremble for thy shame, when on the Day

Of Reckoning that Glory of all time

Shall question thee: “Thou tookest from my lips

The word of Truth, and wherefore hast thou failed

To pass my message on to other men?”

*

Legendă:

[84] Laila este iubita poetului nebun Majnun (Qais).

[85] este citat Rumi.

[86] 84.

[87] Iqbal citează poetul persan Malik-i Qummi.

[88] Baqara, 137: Dacă şi ei cred în ceea ce credeţi voi, atunci sunt drept-călăuziţi, însă, dacă întorc spatele, vor fi în mare dezbinare, iar Allah vă este vouă de ajuns împotriva lor. El este Cel care Aude, Cel care Știe.

[89] Muhammad nu cunoștea citirea ori scrierea; Najm, 3: iar el nu vorbeşte din patimă.

[90] Najm, 2: Prietenul vostru nu se rătăceşte şi nici nu cade în greşeală:

[91] 65.

[92] Māida, 5: Astăzi, toate cele bune vă sunt îngăduite vouă. Mâncarea celor cărora le-a fost dată Cartea vă este îngăduită vouă, precum şi mâncarea voastră le este îngăduită lor. Vă este îngăduit să vă luaţi ca soţii femei credincioase şi cinstite, precum şi femei cinstite, dintr-un popor căruia Cartea i-a fost dată înaintea voastră, dacă le-aţi oferit dota ca și bărbaţi cinstiţi şi nu ca nişte desfrânaţi sau aceia care își iau ţiitoare. Deşarte vor fi faptele oricui se leapădă de credinţă, iar în Viaţa de Apoi va fi printre cei pierduţi.

*

Stray thoughts Reflections

*

THE WORTH OF THINGS

God created things; man created the worth of things. The immortality of a people depends upon their incessant creation of “worths,” said Nietzsche. Things certainly bear the stamp of Divine manufacture; but their meaning is through and through human.

&

THE END OF EDUCATION

What is the law of things? Continual struggle. What must, then, be the end of education? Evidently, preparation for the struggle. A people working for intellectual superiority reveal thereby their feebleness.

&

GOD IS POWER

Power is more divine than truth. God is power. Be ye, then, like your father who is in heaven.

&

THE POWERFUL MAN

The powerful man creates environment; the feeble have to adjust themselves to it.

&

THE TOUCH OF POWER

Power toucheth falsehood, and lo! it is transformed into truth.

&

THE THOUGHT OF THE POWERFUL MAN

Civilisation is a thought of the powerful man.

&

WAITING FOR THE MEHDI

Give up waiting for the Mehdi – the personification of power. Go and create him.

&

THE IDEA OF NATIONALITY

The idea of nationality is certainly a healthy factor in the growth of communities. But it is apt to be exaggerated, and when exaggerated it has a tendency to kill the broad human elements in art and literature.

&

KANT’S CATEGORICAL IMPERATIVE

No one can fully understand the significance of Kant’s categorical imperative who does not study the political history of the German people. The rigour of Kant’s conception of duty finds its full explanation there.

&

TO REVITALISE THE DYING ORGANISM

A diseased social organism sometimes sets up within itself forces which have a tendency to preserve the health of the organism – e.g. the birth of a great personality which may revitalise the dying organism by the revelation of a new ideal.