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My Sweet, Crushed Angel -- Hafiz

Guest poem submitted by Ruchi Bhimani:
(Poem #447) My Sweet, Crushed Angel
        You have not danced so badly, my dear,
Trying to hold hands with the Beautiful One.

You have waltzed with great style,
        My sweet, crushed angel,
To have ever neared God's heart at all.

Our Partner is notoriously difficult to follow,
And even His best musicians are not always easy
                To hear.

So what if the music has stopped for a while.

                So what
If the price of admission to the Divine
        Is out of reach tonight.

        So what, my dear,
If you do not have the ante to gamble for Real Love.

        The mind and the body are famous
        For holding the heart ransom,

But Hafiz knows the Beloved's eternal habits.

                Have patience,

For He will not be able to resist your longing
                For Long.

You have not danced so badly, my dear,
        Trying to kiss the Beautiful One.

You have actually waltzed with tremendous style,
                O my sweet,
        O my sweet crushed angel.
-- Hafiz
This poem was sent to me by a dear friend after we parted ways at boarding
school 5 years ago.  I like it...well, primarily, because it was from a close
friend.  But for the sake of formalism and good poetry, I will attempt to
identify what else it is about the poem that captures me, and makes me unfold a
scrap of paper from my wallet and share it with people that matter.

I like the repetition.  'The sweet Crushed Angel'.  I like the world it creates
of God and Divinity, and makes it seem ordinary, not a forced, contrived world.
And i love how God is "notorious" for making our life difficult.  The metaphor
of the dance gives the entire poem such grace and makes it flow, like a lilting
melody.  Makes it enjoyable reading every single time.

I am happy to share this poem with other minstrel subscribers... other poetry
lovers.  I know nothing more, apart from this poem, about Hafiz, and would love
to know more, if anyone knows.

Ruchi.

[thomas adds]

Your wish is our command... here's Brittanica on Hafiz (or Hafez, as they prefer
to spell his name):

        b. 1325/26, Shiraz, Iran
        d. 1389/90, Shiraz

in full MOHAMMAD SHAMS OD-DIN HAFEZ one of the finest lyric poets of Persia.

Hafez received a classical religious education, lectured on Qur'anic and other
theological subjects ("Hafez" designates one who has learned the Qur'an by
heart), and wrote commentaries on religious classics. As a court poet he enjoyed
the patronage of several rulers of Shiraz.

About 1368-69 Hafez fell out of favour at the court and did not regain his
position until 20 years later, just before his death. In his poetry there are
many echoes of historical events as well as biographical descriptions and
details of life in Shiraz. One of the guiding principles of his life was Sufism,
the Islamic mystical movement that demanded of its adherents complete devotion
to the pursuit of union with the ultimate reality.

Hafez's principal verse form, one that he brought to a perfection never achieved
before or since, was the ghazel, a lyric poem of 6 to 15 couplets linked by
unity of subject and symbolism rather than by a logical sequence of ideas.
Traditionally the ghazel had dealt with love and wine, motifs that, in their
association with ecstasy and freedom from restraint, lent themselves naturally
to the expression of Sufi ideas. Hafez's achievement was to give these
conventional subjects a freshness and subtlety that completely relieves his
poetry of tedious formalism. An important innovation credited to Hafez was the
use of the ghazel instead of the qasida (ode) in panegyrics. Hafez also reduced
the panegyric element of his poems to a mere one or two lines, leaving the
remainder of the poem for his ideas. The extraordinary popularity of Hafez's
poetry in all Persian-speaking lands stems from his simple and often colloquial
though musical language, free from artificial virtuosity, and his unaffected use
of homely images and proverbial expressions. Above all, his poetry is
characterized by love of humanity, contempt for hypocrisy and mediocrity, and an
ability to universalize everyday experience and to relate it to the mystic's
unending search for union with God. His appeal in the West is indicated by the
numerous translations of his poems. Hafez is most famous for his Divan; Eng.
prose trans., H. Wilberforce Clarke, Hafiz Shirazi. The Divan (1891, reprinted
1971). There is also a translated collection: A.J. Arberry, Fifty Poems of Hafiz
(1947).

        -- EB

[Postscript]

"There is as much sense in Hafiz as in Horace, and as much knowledge of the
world."

        -- Sherlock Holmes, 'A Case of Identity'.

Banalata Sen -- Jibanananda Das

Guest poem submitted by Ravi Mundoli:
(Poem #446) Banalata Sen
 For thousands of years I roamed the paths of this earth,
 From waters round Ceylon in dead of night to Malayan seas.
 Much have I wandered. I was there in the grey world of Asoka
 And Bimbisara, pressed on through darkness to the city of Vidarbha.
 I am a weary heart surrounded by life's frothy ocean.
 To me she gave a moment's peace -- Banalata Sen from Natore.

 Her hair was like an ancient darkling night in Vidisa,
 Her face, the craftsmanship of Sravasti. As the helmsman,
 His rudder broken, far out upon the sea adrift,
 Sees the grass-green land of a cinnamon isle, just so
 Through darkness I saw her. Said she, "Where have you been so long?"
 And raised her bird's nest-like eyes -- Banalata Sen from Natore.

 At day's end, like hush of dew
 Comes evening. A hawk wipes the scent of sunlight fom its wings.
 When earth's colors fade and some pale design is sketched,
 Then glimmering fireflies paint in the story.
 All birds come home, all rivers, all of this life's tasks finished.
 Only darkness remains, as I sit there face to face with Banalata Sen.
-- Jibanananda Das
Translated by Clinton B. Seely.

[About Jibanananda Das]

An enigmatic poet, Jibanananda was born on 18th February, 1899 in Barishal, now in
Bangladesh. He started late as a poet for his genre. His short creative life was
cut even shorter in a fatal streetcar accident in an October evening in
Calcutta.

Between 1925, when his first poem appeared, and 1954, this shy professor of
English literature who hardly ever traveled out of Bengal (except for a few
months' stint of teaching at Ramjas College in Delhi), penned some of the  most
powerful verses in Bengali. Nearly half a century after his death, his poems,
with their magical lyrics and tapestry of rich imagery, continue to haunt us.

Jibanananda was a very private person; only one book of his verses was published
in his lifetime, and  there were no translations of his works for many years
after his death. The beauty and magic of Jibanananda's poetry has largely been
confined to the original Bengali.

Clinton B. Seely at the University of Chicago described Das as "the acknowledged
successor to Rabindranath as Bengal's poet laureate", in his biography titled 'A
Poet Apart'.

[About the poem]

Banalata Sen was a recurrent theme in Jibanananda's creation with its rich
tapestry of imagery. Was there a Banalata Sen? There is no documentation that
there was indeed someone by that name in his real life. Expressions suggesting
the end of time, and the use of words like "darkness remains" suggest end of
life themes, that were common in Jibanananda's works related to Banalata Sen,
but nothing beyond this is hinted at in these works.

[Links]

A more complete article on Das can be found at
http://www.sulekha.com/articles/abasu_jibanananda.html

More poems:
http://webdelsol.com/Perihelion/basupoetry.htm
[broken link] http://www.cs.toronto.edu/~zmhasan/BD/POEM/JibDas/

Ravi Mundoli.

[thomas adds]

'A hawk wipes the scent of sunlight fom its wings' - oooh.

A Noiseless Patient Spider -- Walt Whitman

Guest poem submitted by Divya Guru Rajan :
(Poem #445) A Noiseless Patient Spider
A noiseless patient spider,
I mark'd where on a little promontory it stood isolated,
Mark'd how to explore the vacant vast surrounding,
It launch'd forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself,
Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.

And you O my soul where you stand,
Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them,
Till the bridge you will need be form'd, till the ductile anchor hold,
Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul.
-- Walt Whitman
I came across this poem in an anthology of American poetry. Didn't quite realise
the extent of Whitman's influence till I read Beat generation writing and learnt
that he'd been one of their sources of inspiration.

This might sound pompous and cliched and I might be mistaken too but what really
got me about this poem is the superb manner in which he's depicted the restless
wanderings of a soul, caught in a world that it can only dimly comprehend. One
could relate to it as it connects on a very emotive level and the angst is
almost palpable. By the way this was written in 1862.

Divya.

P.S A stylistical analysis is more than what my noodle can attempt and so I
might have missed out on some important aspects!

Contours -- Noel Coward

       
(Poem #444) Contours
Round - oblong - like jam -
Terse as virulent hermaphrodites;
Calling across the sodden twisted ends of Time.
Edifices of importunity
Sway like Parmesan before the half-tones
Of Episcopalian Michaelmas;
Bodies are so impossible to see in retrospect -
And yet I know the well of truth
Is gutted like a pratchful Unicorn.
Sog, sog, sog - why is my mind ambitious?
That's what it is.
-- Noel Coward
I can hardly stop laughing long enough to type these words in...

"In 1923, Noel Coward lampooned Edith Sitwell and her two
brothers, Osbert and Sacheverell, in some sketches which he
called 'The Swiss Family Whittlebot'. This was in the wake of the
first performance of Edith's avant-garde poems for recitation through
loud-speaker with musical accompaniment, 'Facade'. She was
furious, and nursed her grievance against Coward for many years. It
was only aggravated by Coward's description of the eccentric
behaviour of Mrs Hernia Whittlebot, 'who was busy preparing for
publication her new books, "Gilded Sluts" and "Garbage". She
breakfasts on onions and Vichy water'."

        -- 'Unauthorized Versions', a totally brilliant collection of poems
and their parodies, edited by Kenneth Baker, published by Faber
and Faber.

'Contours' is not a parody of any particular Sitwell poem, but rather
of her style as a whole. This example should serve to show what I
mean:

'Said King Pompey'

Said King Pompey, the emperor's ape,
Shuddering black in his temporal cape
Of dust: 'The dust is everything -
The heart to love, and the voice to sing,
Indianapolis
And the Acropolis,
Also the hairy sky that we
Take for a coverlet comfortably.' ...
Said the Bishop
Eating his ketchup -
'There still remains Eternity
(Swelling the diocese) -
That elephantiasis,
The flunkeyed and trumpeting Sea!'

        -- Edith Sitwell

The difference, of course, is that Sitwell's poem takes itself
seriously; Coward's does not. And oh, the difference to me!

thomas.

PS. Lest anyone think otherwise, Sitwell's poems _do_ have
conscious interpretations (or so I'm told - I would love to have
'Pompey' explained to me, and I doubt I'm alone). And she was
possibly the person most responsible for promoting the poetry
(alliteration watch!) of Dylan Thomas, so it's not all one-way traffic. I
still like 'Contours' more than 'Pompey', though.

Poems -- Tom Disch

       
(Poem #443) Poems
I think that I shall never read
A tree of any shape or breed -
For all its xylem and its phloem -
As fascinating as a poem.
Trees must make themselves and so
They tend to seem a little slow
To those accustomed to the pace
Of poems that speed through time and space
As fast as thought. We shouldn't blame
The trees, of course: we'd be the same
If we had roots instead of brains.
While trees just grow, a poem explains,
By precept and example, how
Leaves develop on the bough
And new ideas in the mind.
A sensibility refined
By reading many poems will be
More able to admire a tree
Than lumberjacks and nesting birds
Who lack a poet's way with words
And tend to look at any tree
In terms of its utility.
And so before we give our praise
To pines and oaks and laurels and bays,
We ought to celebrate the poems
That made our human hearts their homes.
-- Tom Disch
I must say I like Disch's parody [1] a good deal more than I do
Joyce Kilmer's original [2]. The latter is weak, sentimental, and on
the whole, just not very good; today's poem, though, is witty,
sensible, and much more in accord with my own views of what
poetry is and does.

Having said that, though, I'd be the first to admit that Kilmer's poem
(or at least the first and last couplets thereof) will probably be
immortal; 'Poems', on the other hand, will almost certainly not.
Such is life.

thomas.

[1] How could I resist a piece that rhymes 'poem' and 'phloem'?

[2] 'Trees', at poem #146

[Afterthought]

There's a pretty famous sf author called Thomas M. Disch ('Camp
Concentration', '334', 'Angouleme'). I wonder if he's any relation?

[One fatbrain search later]

Yup, I think it's the same chappie. One of fatbrain's listings is for a
collection titled 'Dark Verses and Light', by Tom Disch / Thomas
M. Disch.

Who'd have thunk it?

(Though actually, 'poems that speed through time and space / As
fast as thought' is a bit of a giveaway).

[After the afterthought]

I wonder what Disch would have to say to people (geeks, aptly
enough) who refer to published material as 'dead-tree' versions...