I would make bold to aver and maintain that the order of Nature
Never by will of the gods for us mortals was ever created…
From Book III
15
Now then, in order that you may learn that the minds of live creatures
And their imponderable souls are to birth and death alike subject,
I will proceed to compose such verse as shall earn your attention,
By long study amassed, and devised by delightful endeavour.
Please comprise these natures twain ’neath one appellation:
When I pass on, for example, to speak of the soul, how ’tis mortal,
Know that I speak of the mind as well, inasmuch as together
Both one single entity form, one composite substance.
Firstly, then, since I have shewn that ’tis rare, and composed of small bodies;
Shaped from much smaller atoms than fashion a liquid like water,
Atoms far smaller than those which constitute mizzling and smoke-clouds—
For it is nimbler by far, and a far feebler blow sets it moving,
Stirred as it is by the films which mist and smoke shed around them,
As for example when steeped in sleep we seem to see altars
Breathing forth flames of fire, and exalting their smoke to the heavens;
Doubtless from objects like these such films as I speak of are gendered.
Since too, when vessels are shattered, you see how in every direction
Gushes the liquid flood, and the contents utterly vanish;
Since once again the mists and the smoke are dispersed by the breezes;
Know that the soul, too, is scattered abroad, and dies much more quickly,
And is the sooner resolved back into its primary atoms,
Once it has quitted the limbs of a man and abandoned his body.
For when the body, which forms its receptacle, cannot contain it,
Being from any cause crushed, or by issue of life-blood enfeebled,
How can you think that the soul can by fluid air be encompassed?
How can the air, than our body more rare, be able to hold it?
From Book V
39
Next, having gotten them huts and skins and fire; and when woman
Mated with man shared a man’s abode; and when family duties
Therein were learnt; and as soon as they saw their own offspring arising;
Then ’twas that mankind first began to lose power of endurance.
Fire made their gelid frames less able to bear the cold weather
Out ’neath the open sky; their virility Venus exhausted:
Childrens’ caresses too easily sapped the proud spirit of parents.
Neighbours in those days, too, began to form friendly agreements
Neither to inflict nor receive any hurt, and asked for indulgence
Towards their women and bairns, as with cries and gesticulations
And in their stammering speech they tried to explain to each other
That it is meet and right that all should pity the helpless.
And although harmony could not be won in every instance,
Yet did the greater part observe the conventions uprightly;
Else long since would the human race have been wholly abolished,
Nor could their seed till this present day have continued the species.
OMAR KHAYYÁM
From Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám
A Paraphrase from Several Literal Translations by Richard Le Gallienne
Medieval Persia also produced a long and beautiful poem satirizing the claims and practices of religion. Though Omar Khayyám (1048–1131) is best remembered for his warm recommendations of wine, women, and song (preferences that would land him in trouble in today’s Iran, as well) he was actually a very serious astronomer and mathematician who made many contributions to algebra, helped refine the calendar, and may have been an early proponent of the idea that the earth revolved around the sun.
Khayyám clearly doubted that god had revealed himself to some men and not to others, especially in light of the very obvious fact that those who claimed to interpret the revelation were fond of using their claim in order to acquire and wield power over others in this world. He was not the first to notice this aspect of religion, but he was among the wittiest.
The most celebrated translation of his immortal Rubáiyát into English was done by Edward Fitzgerald, but the verses as rendered by Richard Le Gallienne are sometimes better at conveying the pungency that underlies the ironic charm of these quatrains.
The bird of life is singing on the bough
His two eternal notes of “I and Thou”—
O! hearken well, for soon the song sings through
And, would we hear it, we must hear it now.
The bird of life is singing in the sun,
Short is his song, nor only just begun,—
A call, a trill, a rapture, then—so soon!—
A silence, and the song is done—is done.
Yea! what is man that deems himself divine?
Man is a flagon, and his soul the wine;
Man is a reed, his soul the sound therein;
Man is a lantern, and his soul the shine.
Would you be happy! hearken, then, the way:
Heed not TO-MORROW, heed not YESTERDAY;
The magic words of life are HERE and NOW—
O fools, that after some tomorrow stray!
Were I a Sultan, say what greater bliss
Were mine to summon to my side than this,—
Dear gleaming face, far brighter than the moon!
O Love! and this immortalizing kiss.
To all of us the thought of heaven is dear—
Why not be sure of it and make it here?
No doubt there is a heaven yonder too,
But ’tis so far away—and you are near.
Men talk of heaven,—there is no heaven but here;
Men talk of hell,—there is no hell but here;
Men of hereafters talk, and future lives,—
O love, there is no other life—but here.
Gay little moon, that hath not understood!
She claps her hands, and calls the red wine good;
O careless and beloved, if she knew
This wine she fancies is my true heart’s blood.
Girl, have you any thought what your eyes mean?
You must have stolen them from some dead queen.
O little empty laughing soul that sings
And dances, tell me—What do your eyes mean?
And all this body of ivory and myrrh,
O guard it with some little love and care;
Know your own wonder, worship it with me,
See how I fall before it deep in prayer.
Nor idle I who speak it, nor profane,
This playful wisdom growing out of pain;
How many midnights whitened into morn
Before the seeker knew he sought in vain.
You want to know the Secret—so did I,
Low in the dust I sought it, and on high
Sought it in awful flight from star to star,
The Sultan’s watchman of the starry sky.
Up, up, where Parwín’s hoofs stamp heaven’s floor,
My soul went knocking at each starry door,
Till on the stilly top of heaven’s stair,
Clear-eyed I looked—and laughed—and climbed no more.
Of all my seeking this is all my gain:
No agony of any mortal brain
Shall wrest the secret of the life of man;
The Search has taught me that the Search is vain.
Yet sometimes on a sudden all seems clear—
Hush! hush! my soul, the Secret draweth near;
Make silence ready for the speech divine—
If Heaven should speak, and there be none to hear!
Yea! sometimes on the instant all seems plain,
The simple sun could tell us, or the rain;
The world, caught dreaming with a look of heaven,
Seems on a sudden tip-toe to explain.
Like to a maid who exquisitely turns
A promising face to him who, waiting, burns
In hell to hear her answer—so the world
Tricks all, and hints what no man ever learns.
Look not above, there is no answer there;
Pray not, for no one listens to your prayer;
NEAR is as near to God as any FAR,
And HERE is just the same deceit as THERE.
But here are wine and beautiful young girls,
Be wise and hide your sorrows in their curls,
Dive as you will in life’s mysterious sea,
You shall not bring us any better pearls.
Allah, perchance, the secret word might spell;
If Allah be, He keeps His secret well;
What He hath hidden, who shall hope to find?
Shall God His secret to a maggot tell?
So since with all my passion and my skill,
The world’s mysterious meaning mocks me still,
Shall I not piously believe that I
Am kept in darkness by the heavenly will?
How sad to be a woman—not to know
Aught of the glory of this breast of snow,
All unconcerned to comb this mighty hair;
To be a woman and yet never know!
Were I a woman, I would all day long
Sing my own beauty in some holy song,
Bend low before it, hushed and half afraid,
And say “I am a woman” all day long.
The Koran! well, come put me to the test—
Lovely old book in hideous error drest—
Believe me, I can quote the Koran too,
The unbeliever knows his Koran best.
And do you think that unto such as you,
A maggot-minded, starved, fanatic crew,
God gave the Secret, and denied it me?—
Well, well, what matters it! believe that too.
Old Khayyám, say you, is a debauchee;
If only you were half so good as he!
He sins no sins but gentle drunkenness,
Great-hearted mirth, and kind adultery.
But yours the cold heart, and the murderous tongue,
The wintry soul that hates to hear a song,
The close-shut fist, the mean and measuring eye,
And all the little poisoned ways of wrong.
So I be written in the Book of Love,
I have no care about that book above;
Erase my name, or write it, as you please—
So I be written in the Book of Love.
What care I, love, for what the Sufis say?
The Sufis are but drunk another way;
So you be drunk, it matters not the means,
So you be drunk—and glorify your clay.
Drunken myself, and with a merry mind,
An old man passed me, all in vine-leaves twined;
I said, “Old man, hast thou forgotten God?”
“Go, drink yourself,” he said, “for God is kind.”
“Did God set grapes a-growing, do you think,
And at the same time make it sin to drink?
Give thanks to HIM who foreordained it thus—
Surely HE loves to hear the glasses clink!”
From God’s own hand this earthly vessel came,
He shaped it thus, be it for fame or shame;
If it be fair—to God be all the praise,
If it be foul—to God alone the blame.
To me there is much comfort in the thought
That all our agonies can alter nought,
Our lives are written to their latest word,
We but repeat a lesson HE hath taught.
Our wildest wrong is part of His great Right,
Our weakness is the shadow of His might,
Our sins are His, forgiven long ago,
To make His mercy more exceeding bright.
When first the stars were made and planets seven,
Already was it told of me in Heaven
That God had chosen me to sing His Vine,
And in my dust had thrown the vinous leaven.