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رباعيات خيام
Philosopher, astronomer and mathematician, Khayyam as a poet possesses a singular originality. His poetry is richly charged with evocative power and offers a view of life characteristic of his stormy times, with striking relevance to the present day. For more than seventy years, Penguin has been the leading publisher of classic literature in the English-speaking world. With more than 1,700 titles, Penguin Classics represents a global bookshelf of the best works throughout history and across genres and disciplines. Readers trust the series to provide authoritative texts enhanced by introductions and notes by distinguished scholars and contemporary authors, as well as up-to-date translations by award-winning translators.
RENDERED INTO ENGLISH VERSE By EDWARD FITZGERALD. WITH ILLUSTRATIONS By EDMUND DULAC. GARDEN CITY, NY 1952.
RENDERED INTO ENGLISH VERSE By EDWARD FITZGERALD. WITH ILLUSTRATIONS By EDMUND DULAC. GARDEN CITY, NY 1952.
184 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1120
About the author
Omar Khayyám
452 books1,233 followersArabic:عمر الخيام Persian:عمر خیام
Kurdish: عومەر خەییام
Omar Khayyám was a Persian polymath, mathematician, philosopher, astronomer, physician, and poet. He wrote treatises on mechanics, geography, and music. His significance as a philosopher and teacher, and his few remaining philosophical works, have not received the same attention as his scientific and poetic writings. Zamakhshari referred to him as “the philosopher of the world”. Many sources have testified that he taught for decades the philosophy of Ibn Sina in Nishapur where Khayyám was born buried and where his mausoleum remains today a masterpiece of Iranian architecture visited by many people every year.
Outside Iran and Persian speaking countries, Khayyám has had impact on literature and societies through translation and works of scholars. The greatest such impact among several others was in English-speaking countries; the English scholar Thomas Hyde (1636–1703) was the first non-Persian to study him. The most influential of all was Edward FitzGerald (1809–83), who made Khayyám the most famous poet of the East in the West through his celebrated translation and adaptations of Khayyám's rather small number of quatrains (rubaiyaas) in Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám.'
Kurdish: عومەر خەییام
Omar Khayyám was a Persian polymath, mathematician, philosopher, astronomer, physician, and poet. He wrote treatises on mechanics, geography, and music. His significance as a philosopher and teacher, and his few remaining philosophical works, have not received the same attention as his scientific and poetic writings. Zamakhshari referred to him as “the philosopher of the world”. Many sources have testified that he taught for decades the philosophy of Ibn Sina in Nishapur where Khayyám was born buried and where his mausoleum remains today a masterpiece of Iranian architecture visited by many people every year.
Outside Iran and Persian speaking countries, Khayyám has had impact on literature and societies through translation and works of scholars. The greatest such impact among several others was in English-speaking countries; the English scholar Thomas Hyde (1636–1703) was the first non-Persian to study him. The most influential of all was Edward FitzGerald (1809–83), who made Khayyám the most famous poet of the East in the West through his celebrated translation and adaptations of Khayyám's rather small number of quatrains (rubaiyaas) in Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám.'
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August 10, 2021
The Ruba'iyat of Omar Khayyam, Omar Khayyám, Edward FitzGerald (Translator)
Written 1120 A.C.E. Omar Khayyam was born at Naishapur in Khorassan in the latter half of Eleventh Century, and died within the First Quarter of Twelfth Century.
I
Wake! For the Sun, who scatter'd into flight
The Stars before him from the Field of Night,
Drives Night along with them from Heav'n, and strikes
The Sultan's Turret with a Shaft of Light.
II
Before the phantom of False morning died,
Methought a Voice within the Tavern cried,
"When all the Temple is prepared within,
Why nods the drowsy Worshipper outside?"
III
And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before
The Tavern shouted--"Open then the Door!
You know how little while we have to stay,
And, once departed, may return no more."
IV
Now the New Year reviving old Desires,
The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,
Where the White Hand Of Moses on the Bough
Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires.
V
Iram indeed is gone with all his Rose,
And Jamshyd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows;
But still a Ruby kindles in the Vine,
And many a Garden by the Water blows,
VI
And David's lips are lockt; but in divine
High-piping Pehlevi, with "Wine! Wine! Wine!
Red Wine!"--the Nightingale cries to the Rose
That sallow cheek of hers t' incarnadine.
VII
Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring
Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time bas but a little way
To flutter--and the Bird is on the Wing.
VIII
Whether at Naishapur or Babylon,
Whether the Cup with sweet or bitter run,
The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop,
The Leaves of Life keep falling one by one.
IX
Each Morn a thousand Roses brings, you say;
Yes, but where leaves the Rose of Yesterday?
And this first Summer month that brings the Rose
Shall take Jamshyd and Kaikobad away.
X
Well, let it take them! What have we to do
With Kaikobad the Great, or Kaikhosru?
Let Zal and Rustum bluster as they will,
Or Hatim call to Supper--heed not you
XI
With me along the strip of Herbage strown
That just divides the desert from the sown,
Where name of Slave and Sultan is forgot--
And Peace to Mahmud on his golden Throne!
XII
A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread--and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness--
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!
XIII
Some for the Glories of This World; and some
Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come;
Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go,
Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!
XIV
Look to the blowing Rose about us--"Lo,
Laughing," she says, "into the world I blow,
At once the silken tassel of my Purse
Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw."
XV
And those who husbanded the Golden grain,
And those who flung it to the winds like Rain,
Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn'd
As, buried once, Men want dug up again.
XVI
The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon
Turns Ashes--or it prospers; and anon,
Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face,
Lighting a little hour or two--is gone.
XVII
Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai
Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day,
How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp
Abode his destined Hour, and went his way.
XVIII
They say the Lion and the Lizard keep
The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep:
And Bahram, that great Hunter--the Wild Ass
Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep.
XIX
I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;
That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.
XX
And this reviving Herb whose tender Green
Fledges the River-Lip on which we lean--
Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows
From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!
XXI
Ah, my Belov'ed fill the Cup that clears
To-day Past Regrets and Future Fears:
To-morrow!--Why, To-morrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n Thousand Years.
XXII
For some we loved, the loveliest and the best
That from his Vintage rolling Time hath prest,
Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,
And one by one crept silently to rest.
XXIII
And we, that now make merry in the Room
They left, and Summer dresses in new bloom
Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth
Descend--ourselves to make a Couch--for whom?
XXIV
Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,
Before we too into the Dust descend;
Dust into Dust, and under Dust to lie
Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and--sans End!
XXV
Alike for those who for To-day prepare,
And those that after some To-morrow stare,
A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries
"Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There."
XXVI
Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss'd
Of the Two Worlds so wisely--they are thrust
Like foolish Prophets forth; their Words to Scorn
Are scatter'd, and their Mouths are stopt with Dust.
XXVII
Myself when young did eagerly frequent
Doctor and Saint, and heard great argument
About it and about: but evermore
Came out by the same door where in I went.
XXVIII
With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow,
And with mine own hand wrought to make it grow;
And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd--
"I came like Water, and like Wind I go."
XXIX
Into this Universe, and Why not knowing
Nor Whence, like Water willy-nilly flowing;
And out of it, as Wind along the Waste,
I know not Whither, willy-nilly blowing.
XXX
What, without asking, hither hurried Whence?
And, without asking, Whither hurried hence!
Oh, many a Cup of this forbidden Wine
Must drown the memory of that insolence!
XXXI
Up from Earth's Centre through the Seventh Gate
rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate;
And many a Knot unravel'd by the Road;
But not the Master-knot of Human Fate.
XXXII
There was the Door to which I found no Key;
There was the Veil through which I might not see:
Some little talk awhile of Me and Thee
There was--and then no more of Thee and Me.
XXXIII
Earth could not answer; nor the Seas that mourn
In flowing Purple, of their Lord forlorn;
Nor rolling Heaven, with all his Signs reveal'd
And hidden by the sleeve of Night and Morn.
XXXIV
Then of the Thee in Me works behind
The Veil, I lifted up my hands to find
A Lamp amid the Darkness; and I heard,
As from Without--"The Me Within Thee Blind!"
XXXV
Then to the lip of this poor earthen Urn
I lean'd, the Secret of my Life to learn:
And Lip to Lip it murmur'd--"While you live
Drink!--for, once dead, you never shall return."
XXXVI
I think the Vessel, that with fugitive
Articulation answer'd, once did live,
And drink; and Ah! the passive Lip I kiss'd,
How many Kisses might it take--and give!
XXXVII
For I remember stopping by the way
To watch a Potter thumping his wet Clay:
And with its all-obliterated Tongue
It murmur'd--"Gently, Brother, gently, pray!"
XXXVIII
And has not such a Story from of Old
Down Man's successive generations roll'd
Of such a clod of saturated Earth
Cast by the Maker into Human mould?
XXXIX
And not a drop that from our Cups we throw
For Earth to drink of, but may steal below
To quench the fire of Anguish in some Eye
There hidden--far beneath, and long ago.
XL
As then the Tulip for her morning sup
Of Heav'nly Vintage from the soil looks up,
Do you devoutly do the like, till Heav'n
To Earth invert you--like an empty Cup.
XLI
Perplext no more with Human or Divine,
To-morrow's tangle to the winds resign,
And lose your fingers in the tresses of
The Cypress--slender Minister of Wine.
XLII
And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press
End in what All begins and ends in--Yes;
Think then you are To-day what Yesterday
You were--To-morrow You shall not be less.
XLIII
So when that Angel of the darker Drink
At last shall find you by the river-brink,
And, offering his Cup, invite your Soul
Forth to your Lips to quaff--you shall not shrink.
XLIV
Why, if the Soul can fling the Dust aside,
And naked on the Air of Heaven ride,
Were't not a Shame--were't not a Shame for him
In this clay carcase crippled to abide?
XLV
'Tis but a Tent where takes his one day's rest
A Sultan to the realm of Death addrest;
The Sultan rises, and the dark Ferrash
Strikes, and prepares it for another Guest.
XLVI
And fear not lest Existence closing your
Account, and mine, should know the like no more;
The Eternal Saki from that Bowl has pour'd
Millions of Bubbles like us, and will pour.
XLVII
When You and I behind the Veil are past,
Oh, but the long, long while the World shall last,
Which of our Coming and Departure heeds
As the Sea's self should heed a pebble-cast.
XLVIII
A Moment's Halt--a momentary taste
Of Being from the Well amid the Waste--
And Lo!--the phantom Caravan has reach'd
The Nothing it set out from--Oh, make haste!
XLIX
Would you that spangle of Existence spend
About the Secret--Quick about it, Friend!
A Hair perhaps divides the False and True--
And upon what, prithee, may life depend?
L
A Hair perhaps divides the False and True;
Yes; and a single Alif were the clue--
Could you but find it--to the Treasure-house,
And peradventure to The Master too;
LI
Whose secret Presence, through Creation's veins
Running Quicksilver-like eludes your pains;
Taking all shapes from Mah to Mahi; and
They change and perish all--but He remains;
LII
A moment guess'd--then back behind the Fold
Immerst of Darkness round the Drama roll'd
Which, for the Pastime of Eternity,
He doth Himself contrive, enact, behold.
LIII
But if in vain, down on the stubborn floor
Of Earth, and up to Heav'n's unopening Door
You gaze To-day, while You are You--how then
To-morrow, You when shall be You no more?
LIV
Waste not your Hour, nor in the vain pursuit
Of This and That endeavour and dispute;
Better be jocund with the fruitful Grape
Than sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit.
LV
You know, my Friends, with what a brave Carouse
I made a Second Marriage in my house;
Divorced old barren Reason from my Bed
And took the Daughter of the Vine to Spouse.
LVI
For "Is" and "Is-not" though with Rule and Line
And "Up" and "Down" by Logic I define,
Of all that one should care to fathom,
Was never deep in anything but--Wine.
LVII
Ah, but my Computations, People say,
Reduced the Year to better reckoning?--Nay
'Twas only striking from the Calendar
Unborn To-morrow, and dead Yesterday.
LVIII
And lately, by the Tavern Door agape,
Came shining through the Dusk an Angel Shape
Bearing a Vessel on his Shoulder; and
He bid me taste of it; and 'twas--the Grape!
LIX
The Grape that can with Logic absolute
The Two-and-Seventy jarring Sects confute:
The sovereign Alchemist that in a trice
Life's leaden metal into Gold transmute:
LX
The mighty Mahmud, Allah-breathing Lord
That all the misbelieving and black Horde
Of Fears and Sorrows that infest the Soul
Scatters before him with his whirlwind Sword.
LXI
Why, be this Juice the growth of God, who dare
Blaspheme the twisted tendril as a Snare?
A Blessing, we should use it, should we not?
And if a Curse--why, then, Who set it there?
LXII
I must abjure the Balm of Life, I must,
Scared by some After-reckoning ta'en on trust,
Or lured with Hope of some Diviner Drink,
To fill the Cup--when crumbled into Dust!
LXIII
Oh, threats of Hell and Hopes of Paradise!
One thing at least is certain--This Life flies;
One thing is certain and the rest is Lies;
The Flower that once has blown for ever dies.
LXIV
Strange, is it not? that of the myriads who
Before us pass'd the door of Darkness through,
Not one returns to tell us of the Road,
Which to discover we must travel too.
LXV
The Revelations of Devout and Learn'd
Who rose before us, and as Prophets burn'd,
Are all but Stories, which, awoke from Sleep,
They told their comrades, and to Sleep return'd.
LXVI
I sent my Soul through the Invisible,
Some letter of that After-life to spell:
And by and by my Soul return'd to me,
And answer'd "I Myself am Heav'n and Hell:"
LXVII
Heav'n but the Vision of fulfill'd Desire,
And Hell the Shadow from a Soul on fire,
Cast on the Darkness into which Ourselves,
So late emerged from, shall so soon expire.
LXVIII
We are no other than a moving row
Of Magic Shadow-shapes that come and go
Round with the Sun-illumined Lantern held
In Midnight by the Master of the Show;
LXIX
But helpless Pieces of the Game He plays
Upon this Chequer-board of Nights and Days;
Hither and thither moves, and checks, and slays,
And one by one back in the Closet lays.
LXX
The Ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes,
But Here or There as strikes the Player goes;
And He that toss'd you down into the Field,
He knows about it all--He knows--HE knows!
LXXI
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.
LXXII
And that inverted Bowl they call the Sky,
Whereunder crawling coop'd we live and die,
Lift not your hands to It for help--for It
As impotently moves as you or I.
LXXIII
With Earth's first Clay They did the Last Man knead,
And there of the Last Harvest sow'd the Seed:
And the first Morning of Creation wrote
What the Last Dawn of Reckoning shall read.
LXXIV
Yesterday This Day's Madness did prepare;
To-morrow's Silence, Triumph, or Despair:
Drink! for you know not whence you came, nor why:
Drink! for you know not why you go, nor where.
LXXV
I tell you this--When, started from the Goal,
Over the flaming shoulders of the Foal
Of Heav'n Parwin and Mushtari they flung
In my predestined Plot of Dust and Soul.
LXXVI
The Vine had struck a fibre: which about
If clings my being--let the Dervish flout;
Of my Base metal may be filed a Key,
That shall unlock the Door he howls without.
LXXVII
And this I know: whether the one True Light
Kindle to Love, or Wrath-consume me quite,
One Flash of It within the Tavern caught
Better than in the Temple lost outright.
LXXVIII
What! out of senseless Nothing to provoke
A conscious Something to resent the yoke
Of unpermitted Pleasure, under pain
Of Everlasting Penalties, if broke!
LXXIX
What! from his helpless Creature be repaid
Pure Gold for what he lent him dross-allay'd--
Sue for a Debt he never did contract,
And cannot answer--Oh, the sorry trade!
...
تاریخ نخستین خوانش این نسخه: ماد فوریه سال 2004 میلادی
در دفترم، دوازده نسخه از این کتاب مستطاب، ��نوز هم هست؛ برای همین است که مشخصات نسخه های چاپ شده را، در این ریویو نمیبینید، بسیار زیاد است، و نوشتن تکه ای از پاره های نشر نیز، دردی را از پژوهشگران، درمان نخواهد کرد، و نمیکند؛ تاریخ نخستین خوانش این فراموشکار از خیام دلآویز نیز، به دوره ی دبیرستان فیوضات تبریز برمیگردد، سالهای 1342 هجری شمسی به بعد، چند سال پیشتر، خواستم نسخه ی روانشاد: ادوارد فیتزجرالد را، با نسخه های کهن موجود در اینترنت، برابر نهم، و و برای خود پژوهشی کنم، شاید که گرهی گشوده شود؛ بیشتر نسخه ها را گرد آوردم، و صفحاتی چند از نسخه ی چاپ شده ی فیتز جرالد را نیز یافتم، سپس به نسخه های هدایت، و دیگران پرداختم، هنوز هم گاه، دستی بالا میزنم، و چند خطی مینویسم
جامی ست که عقل آفرین میزندش، - صد بوسه ی مهر، بر جبین میزندش
این کوزه گر دهر چنین جام لطیف، - میسازد، و باز، برزمین میزندش
***
ای کاش که جای آرمیدن بودی، - یا این ره دور را رسیدن بودی
یا از پس صد هزار سال از دل خاک، - چون سبزه امید بردمیدن بودی
***
این کوزه چو من عاشق زاری بوده ست، - در بند سر زلف نگاری بوده ست
این دسته که بر گردن او می بینی، - دستی است که بر گردن یاری بودست
***
هرچند که رنگ و روی زیباست مرا، - چون لاله رخ و چو سرو بالاست مرا
معلوم نشد که در طربخانه ی خاک، - نقاش ازل بهر چه آراست مرا
خیام
تاریخ بهنگام رسانی 18/05/1400هجری خورشیدی؛ ا. شربیانی
Written 1120 A.C.E. Omar Khayyam was born at Naishapur in Khorassan in the latter half of Eleventh Century, and died within the First Quarter of Twelfth Century.
I
Wake! For the Sun, who scatter'd into flight
The Stars before him from the Field of Night,
Drives Night along with them from Heav'n, and strikes
The Sultan's Turret with a Shaft of Light.
II
Before the phantom of False morning died,
Methought a Voice within the Tavern cried,
"When all the Temple is prepared within,
Why nods the drowsy Worshipper outside?"
III
And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before
The Tavern shouted--"Open then the Door!
You know how little while we have to stay,
And, once departed, may return no more."
IV
Now the New Year reviving old Desires,
The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,
Where the White Hand Of Moses on the Bough
Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires.
V
Iram indeed is gone with all his Rose,
And Jamshyd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows;
But still a Ruby kindles in the Vine,
And many a Garden by the Water blows,
VI
And David's lips are lockt; but in divine
High-piping Pehlevi, with "Wine! Wine! Wine!
Red Wine!"--the Nightingale cries to the Rose
That sallow cheek of hers t' incarnadine.
VII
Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring
Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time bas but a little way
To flutter--and the Bird is on the Wing.
VIII
Whether at Naishapur or Babylon,
Whether the Cup with sweet or bitter run,
The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop,
The Leaves of Life keep falling one by one.
IX
Each Morn a thousand Roses brings, you say;
Yes, but where leaves the Rose of Yesterday?
And this first Summer month that brings the Rose
Shall take Jamshyd and Kaikobad away.
X
Well, let it take them! What have we to do
With Kaikobad the Great, or Kaikhosru?
Let Zal and Rustum bluster as they will,
Or Hatim call to Supper--heed not you
XI
With me along the strip of Herbage strown
That just divides the desert from the sown,
Where name of Slave and Sultan is forgot--
And Peace to Mahmud on his golden Throne!
XII
A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread--and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness--
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!
XIII
Some for the Glories of This World; and some
Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come;
Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go,
Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!
XIV
Look to the blowing Rose about us--"Lo,
Laughing," she says, "into the world I blow,
At once the silken tassel of my Purse
Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw."
XV
And those who husbanded the Golden grain,
And those who flung it to the winds like Rain,
Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn'd
As, buried once, Men want dug up again.
XVI
The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon
Turns Ashes--or it prospers; and anon,
Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face,
Lighting a little hour or two--is gone.
XVII
Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai
Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day,
How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp
Abode his destined Hour, and went his way.
XVIII
They say the Lion and the Lizard keep
The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep:
And Bahram, that great Hunter--the Wild Ass
Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep.
XIX
I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;
That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.
XX
And this reviving Herb whose tender Green
Fledges the River-Lip on which we lean--
Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows
From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!
XXI
Ah, my Belov'ed fill the Cup that clears
To-day Past Regrets and Future Fears:
To-morrow!--Why, To-morrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n Thousand Years.
XXII
For some we loved, the loveliest and the best
That from his Vintage rolling Time hath prest,
Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,
And one by one crept silently to rest.
XXIII
And we, that now make merry in the Room
They left, and Summer dresses in new bloom
Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth
Descend--ourselves to make a Couch--for whom?
XXIV
Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,
Before we too into the Dust descend;
Dust into Dust, and under Dust to lie
Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and--sans End!
XXV
Alike for those who for To-day prepare,
And those that after some To-morrow stare,
A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries
"Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There."
XXVI
Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss'd
Of the Two Worlds so wisely--they are thrust
Like foolish Prophets forth; their Words to Scorn
Are scatter'd, and their Mouths are stopt with Dust.
XXVII
Myself when young did eagerly frequent
Doctor and Saint, and heard great argument
About it and about: but evermore
Came out by the same door where in I went.
XXVIII
With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow,
And with mine own hand wrought to make it grow;
And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd--
"I came like Water, and like Wind I go."
XXIX
Into this Universe, and Why not knowing
Nor Whence, like Water willy-nilly flowing;
And out of it, as Wind along the Waste,
I know not Whither, willy-nilly blowing.
XXX
What, without asking, hither hurried Whence?
And, without asking, Whither hurried hence!
Oh, many a Cup of this forbidden Wine
Must drown the memory of that insolence!
XXXI
Up from Earth's Centre through the Seventh Gate
rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate;
And many a Knot unravel'd by the Road;
But not the Master-knot of Human Fate.
XXXII
There was the Door to which I found no Key;
There was the Veil through which I might not see:
Some little talk awhile of Me and Thee
There was--and then no more of Thee and Me.
XXXIII
Earth could not answer; nor the Seas that mourn
In flowing Purple, of their Lord forlorn;
Nor rolling Heaven, with all his Signs reveal'd
And hidden by the sleeve of Night and Morn.
XXXIV
Then of the Thee in Me works behind
The Veil, I lifted up my hands to find
A Lamp amid the Darkness; and I heard,
As from Without--"The Me Within Thee Blind!"
XXXV
Then to the lip of this poor earthen Urn
I lean'd, the Secret of my Life to learn:
And Lip to Lip it murmur'd--"While you live
Drink!--for, once dead, you never shall return."
XXXVI
I think the Vessel, that with fugitive
Articulation answer'd, once did live,
And drink; and Ah! the passive Lip I kiss'd,
How many Kisses might it take--and give!
XXXVII
For I remember stopping by the way
To watch a Potter thumping his wet Clay:
And with its all-obliterated Tongue
It murmur'd--"Gently, Brother, gently, pray!"
XXXVIII
And has not such a Story from of Old
Down Man's successive generations roll'd
Of such a clod of saturated Earth
Cast by the Maker into Human mould?
XXXIX
And not a drop that from our Cups we throw
For Earth to drink of, but may steal below
To quench the fire of Anguish in some Eye
There hidden--far beneath, and long ago.
XL
As then the Tulip for her morning sup
Of Heav'nly Vintage from the soil looks up,
Do you devoutly do the like, till Heav'n
To Earth invert you--like an empty Cup.
XLI
Perplext no more with Human or Divine,
To-morrow's tangle to the winds resign,
And lose your fingers in the tresses of
The Cypress--slender Minister of Wine.
XLII
And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press
End in what All begins and ends in--Yes;
Think then you are To-day what Yesterday
You were--To-morrow You shall not be less.
XLIII
So when that Angel of the darker Drink
At last shall find you by the river-brink,
And, offering his Cup, invite your Soul
Forth to your Lips to quaff--you shall not shrink.
XLIV
Why, if the Soul can fling the Dust aside,
And naked on the Air of Heaven ride,
Were't not a Shame--were't not a Shame for him
In this clay carcase crippled to abide?
XLV
'Tis but a Tent where takes his one day's rest
A Sultan to the realm of Death addrest;
The Sultan rises, and the dark Ferrash
Strikes, and prepares it for another Guest.
XLVI
And fear not lest Existence closing your
Account, and mine, should know the like no more;
The Eternal Saki from that Bowl has pour'd
Millions of Bubbles like us, and will pour.
XLVII
When You and I behind the Veil are past,
Oh, but the long, long while the World shall last,
Which of our Coming and Departure heeds
As the Sea's self should heed a pebble-cast.
XLVIII
A Moment's Halt--a momentary taste
Of Being from the Well amid the Waste--
And Lo!--the phantom Caravan has reach'd
The Nothing it set out from--Oh, make haste!
XLIX
Would you that spangle of Existence spend
About the Secret--Quick about it, Friend!
A Hair perhaps divides the False and True--
And upon what, prithee, may life depend?
L
A Hair perhaps divides the False and True;
Yes; and a single Alif were the clue--
Could you but find it--to the Treasure-house,
And peradventure to The Master too;
LI
Whose secret Presence, through Creation's veins
Running Quicksilver-like eludes your pains;
Taking all shapes from Mah to Mahi; and
They change and perish all--but He remains;
LII
A moment guess'd--then back behind the Fold
Immerst of Darkness round the Drama roll'd
Which, for the Pastime of Eternity,
He doth Himself contrive, enact, behold.
LIII
But if in vain, down on the stubborn floor
Of Earth, and up to Heav'n's unopening Door
You gaze To-day, while You are You--how then
To-morrow, You when shall be You no more?
LIV
Waste not your Hour, nor in the vain pursuit
Of This and That endeavour and dispute;
Better be jocund with the fruitful Grape
Than sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit.
LV
You know, my Friends, with what a brave Carouse
I made a Second Marriage in my house;
Divorced old barren Reason from my Bed
And took the Daughter of the Vine to Spouse.
LVI
For "Is" and "Is-not" though with Rule and Line
And "Up" and "Down" by Logic I define,
Of all that one should care to fathom,
Was never deep in anything but--Wine.
LVII
Ah, but my Computations, People say,
Reduced the Year to better reckoning?--Nay
'Twas only striking from the Calendar
Unborn To-morrow, and dead Yesterday.
LVIII
And lately, by the Tavern Door agape,
Came shining through the Dusk an Angel Shape
Bearing a Vessel on his Shoulder; and
He bid me taste of it; and 'twas--the Grape!
LIX
The Grape that can with Logic absolute
The Two-and-Seventy jarring Sects confute:
The sovereign Alchemist that in a trice
Life's leaden metal into Gold transmute:
LX
The mighty Mahmud, Allah-breathing Lord
That all the misbelieving and black Horde
Of Fears and Sorrows that infest the Soul
Scatters before him with his whirlwind Sword.
LXI
Why, be this Juice the growth of God, who dare
Blaspheme the twisted tendril as a Snare?
A Blessing, we should use it, should we not?
And if a Curse--why, then, Who set it there?
LXII
I must abjure the Balm of Life, I must,
Scared by some After-reckoning ta'en on trust,
Or lured with Hope of some Diviner Drink,
To fill the Cup--when crumbled into Dust!
LXIII
Oh, threats of Hell and Hopes of Paradise!
One thing at least is certain--This Life flies;
One thing is certain and the rest is Lies;
The Flower that once has blown for ever dies.
LXIV
Strange, is it not? that of the myriads who
Before us pass'd the door of Darkness through,
Not one returns to tell us of the Road,
Which to discover we must travel too.
LXV
The Revelations of Devout and Learn'd
Who rose before us, and as Prophets burn'd,
Are all but Stories, which, awoke from Sleep,
They told their comrades, and to Sleep return'd.
LXVI
I sent my Soul through the Invisible,
Some letter of that After-life to spell:
And by and by my Soul return'd to me,
And answer'd "I Myself am Heav'n and Hell:"
LXVII
Heav'n but the Vision of fulfill'd Desire,
And Hell the Shadow from a Soul on fire,
Cast on the Darkness into which Ourselves,
So late emerged from, shall so soon expire.
LXVIII
We are no other than a moving row
Of Magic Shadow-shapes that come and go
Round with the Sun-illumined Lantern held
In Midnight by the Master of the Show;
LXIX
But helpless Pieces of the Game He plays
Upon this Chequer-board of Nights and Days;
Hither and thither moves, and checks, and slays,
And one by one back in the Closet lays.
LXX
The Ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes,
But Here or There as strikes the Player goes;
And He that toss'd you down into the Field,
He knows about it all--He knows--HE knows!
LXXI
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.
LXXII
And that inverted Bowl they call the Sky,
Whereunder crawling coop'd we live and die,
Lift not your hands to It for help--for It
As impotently moves as you or I.
LXXIII
With Earth's first Clay They did the Last Man knead,
And there of the Last Harvest sow'd the Seed:
And the first Morning of Creation wrote
What the Last Dawn of Reckoning shall read.
LXXIV
Yesterday This Day's Madness did prepare;
To-morrow's Silence, Triumph, or Despair:
Drink! for you know not whence you came, nor why:
Drink! for you know not why you go, nor where.
LXXV
I tell you this--When, started from the Goal,
Over the flaming shoulders of the Foal
Of Heav'n Parwin and Mushtari they flung
In my predestined Plot of Dust and Soul.
LXXVI
The Vine had struck a fibre: which about
If clings my being--let the Dervish flout;
Of my Base metal may be filed a Key,
That shall unlock the Door he howls without.
LXXVII
And this I know: whether the one True Light
Kindle to Love, or Wrath-consume me quite,
One Flash of It within the Tavern caught
Better than in the Temple lost outright.
LXXVIII
What! out of senseless Nothing to provoke
A conscious Something to resent the yoke
Of unpermitted Pleasure, under pain
Of Everlasting Penalties, if broke!
LXXIX
What! from his helpless Creature be repaid
Pure Gold for what he lent him dross-allay'd--
Sue for a Debt he never did contract,
And cannot answer--Oh, the sorry trade!
...
تاریخ نخستین خوانش این نسخه: ماد فوریه سال 2004 میلادی
در دفترم، دوازده نسخه از این کتاب مستطاب، ��نوز هم هست؛ برای همین است که مشخصات نسخه های چاپ شده را، در این ریویو نمیبینید، بسیار زیاد است، و نوشتن تکه ای از پاره های نشر نیز، دردی را از پژوهشگران، درمان نخواهد کرد، و نمیکند؛ تاریخ نخستین خوانش این فراموشکار از خیام دلآویز نیز، به دوره ی دبیرستان فیوضات تبریز برمیگردد، سالهای 1342 هجری شمسی به بعد، چند سال پیشتر، خواستم نسخه ی روانشاد: ادوارد فیتزجرالد را، با نسخه های کهن موجود در اینترنت، برابر نهم، و و برای خود پژوهشی کنم، شاید که گرهی گشوده شود؛ بیشتر نسخه ها را گرد آوردم، و صفحاتی چند از نسخه ی چاپ شده ی فیتز جرالد را نیز یافتم، سپس به نسخه های هدایت، و دیگران پرداختم، هنوز هم گاه، دستی بالا میزنم، و چند خطی مینویسم
جامی ست که عقل آفرین میزندش، - صد بوسه ی مهر، بر جبین میزندش
این کوزه گر دهر چنین جام لطیف، - میسازد، و باز، برزمین میزندش
***
ای کاش که جای آرمیدن بودی، - یا این ره دور را رسیدن بودی
یا از پس صد هزار سال از دل خاک، - چون سبزه امید بردمیدن بودی
***
این کوزه چو من عاشق زاری بوده ست، - در بند سر زلف نگاری بوده ست
این دسته که بر گردن او می بینی، - دستی است که بر گردن یاری بودست
***
هرچند که رنگ و روی زیباست مرا، - چون لاله رخ و چو سرو بالاست مرا
معلوم نشد که در طربخانه ی خاک، - نقاش ازل بهر چه آراست مرا
خیام
تاریخ بهنگام رسانی 18/05/1400هجری خورشیدی؛ ا. شربیانی
October 5, 2021
رباعیات عمر خیام با ترجمه انگلیسی = Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, Omar Khayyam
Omar Khayyam was born at Naishapur in Khorassan in the latter half of Eleventh, and died within the First Quarter of Twelfth Century.
The Slender Story of his Life is curiously twined about that of two other very considerable Figures in their Time and Country: one of whom tells the Story of all Three. This was Nizam ul Mulk, Vizier to Alp Arslan the Son, and Malik Shah the Grandson, of Toghrul Beg the Tartar, who had wrested Persia from the feeble Successor of Mahmud the Great, and founded that Seljukian Dynasty which finally roused Europe into the Crusades.
I
Wake! For the Sun, who scatter'd into flight
The Stars before him from the Field of Night,
Drives Night along with them from Heav'n, and strikes
The Sultan's Turret with a Shaft of Light.
II
Before the phantom of False morning died,
Methought a Voice within the Tavern cried,
"When all the Temple is prepared within,
Why nods the drowsy Worshipper outside?"
III
And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before
The Tavern shouted--"Open then the Door!
You know how little while we have to stay,
And, once departed, may return no more."
IV
Now the New Year reviving old Desires,
The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,
Where the White Hand Of Moses on the Bough
Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires.
V
Iram indeed is gone with all his Rose,
And Jamshyd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows;
But still a Ruby kindles in the Vine,
And many a Garden by the Water blows
VI
And David's lips are lockt; but in divine
High-piping Pehlevi, with "Wine! Wine! Wine!
Red Wine!"--the Nightingale cries to the Rose
That sallow cheek of hers t' incarnadine.
VII
Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring
Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time bas but a little way
To flutter--and the Bird is on the Wing.
VIII
Whether at Naishapur or Babylon,
Whether the Cup with sweet or bitter run,
The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop,
The Leaves of Life keep falling one by one.
IX
Each Morn a thousand Roses brings, you say;
Yes, but where leaves the Rose of Yesterday?
And this first Summer month that brings the Rose
Shall take Jamshyd and Kaikobad away.
X
Well, let it take them! What have we to do
With Kaikobad the Great, or Kaikhosru?
Let Zal and Rustum bluster as they will,
Or Hatim call to Supper--heed not you
XI
With me along the strip of Herbage strown
That just divides the desert from the sown,
Where name of Slave and Sultan is forgot--
And Peace to Mahmud on his golden Throne!
XII
A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread--and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness--
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!
XIII
Some for the Glories of This World; and some
Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come;
Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go,
Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!
XIV
Look to the blowing Rose about us--"Lo,
Laughing," she says, "into the world I blow,
At once the silken tassel of my Purse
Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw."
XV
And those who husbanded the Golden grain,
And those who flung it to the winds like Rain,
Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn'd
As, buried once, Men want dug up again.
XVI
The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon
Turns Ashes--or it prospers; and anon,
Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face,
Lighting a little hour or two--is gone.
XVII
Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai
Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day,
How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp
Abode his destined Hour, and went his way.
XVIII
They say the Lion and the Lizard keep
The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep:
And Bahram, that great Hunter--the Wild Ass
Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep.
XIX
I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;
That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.
XX
And this reviving Herb whose tender Green
Fledges the River-Lip on which we lean--
Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows
From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!
تاریخ نخستین خوانش این نسخه: در ماه فوریه سال 2004میلادی
عنوان: رباعیات عمر خیام با ترجمه انگلیسی؛ شاعر: عمر خیام؛ موضوع: شعر شاعران ایرانی - سده 12م
***
این کوزه چو من عاشق زاری بوده ست، - در بند سر زلف نگاری بوده ست
این دسته که بر گردن او میبینی، - دستی است که بر گردن یاری بودست
***
هرچند که رنگ و روی زیباست مرا، - چون لاله رخ و چو سرو بالاست مرا
معلوم نشد که در طربخانه ی خاک، - نقاش ازل بهر چه آراست مرا
خیام
در دفترم دوازده نسخه از این کتاب مستطاب هنوز هم هست؛ برای همین است مشخصات نسخه های چاپ شده را، در این ریویو نمیبینید، بسیار هستند و نوشتن تکه ای از پاره های نشر نیز، دردی را از پژوهشگران، درمان نخواهد کرد، و نمیکند؛ تاریخ نخستین خوانش این فراموشکار، از خیام دلآویز نیز به دوره ی «دبیرستان فیوضات تبریز» برمیگردد، سالهای 1342هجری خورشیدی به بعد، چند سال پیشتر نیز خواستم نسخه ی روانشاد «ادوارد فیتزجرالد» را با نسخه های کهن موجود در اینترنت، برابر نهم، و برای خود پژوهشیکی کنم، شاید که گرهی گشوده شود؛ بیشتر نسخه ها را گرد آوردم، و صفحاتی چند، از نسخه ی چاپ شده ی «فیتز جرالد» را نیز، یافتم، سپس به نسخه های روانشاد «هدایت»، و دیگران پرداختم، هنوز هم گاه دستی بالا میزنم و چند خطی مینگارم
تاریخ بهنگام رسانی 25/07/1399هجری خورشیدی؛ 12/07/1400هجری خورشیدی؛ ا. شربیانی
Omar Khayyam was born at Naishapur in Khorassan in the latter half of Eleventh, and died within the First Quarter of Twelfth Century.
The Slender Story of his Life is curiously twined about that of two other very considerable Figures in their Time and Country: one of whom tells the Story of all Three. This was Nizam ul Mulk, Vizier to Alp Arslan the Son, and Malik Shah the Grandson, of Toghrul Beg the Tartar, who had wrested Persia from the feeble Successor of Mahmud the Great, and founded that Seljukian Dynasty which finally roused Europe into the Crusades.
I
Wake! For the Sun, who scatter'd into flight
The Stars before him from the Field of Night,
Drives Night along with them from Heav'n, and strikes
The Sultan's Turret with a Shaft of Light.
II
Before the phantom of False morning died,
Methought a Voice within the Tavern cried,
"When all the Temple is prepared within,
Why nods the drowsy Worshipper outside?"
III
And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before
The Tavern shouted--"Open then the Door!
You know how little while we have to stay,
And, once departed, may return no more."
IV
Now the New Year reviving old Desires,
The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,
Where the White Hand Of Moses on the Bough
Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires.
V
Iram indeed is gone with all his Rose,
And Jamshyd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows;
But still a Ruby kindles in the Vine,
And many a Garden by the Water blows
VI
And David's lips are lockt; but in divine
High-piping Pehlevi, with "Wine! Wine! Wine!
Red Wine!"--the Nightingale cries to the Rose
That sallow cheek of hers t' incarnadine.
VII
Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring
Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time bas but a little way
To flutter--and the Bird is on the Wing.
VIII
Whether at Naishapur or Babylon,
Whether the Cup with sweet or bitter run,
The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop,
The Leaves of Life keep falling one by one.
IX
Each Morn a thousand Roses brings, you say;
Yes, but where leaves the Rose of Yesterday?
And this first Summer month that brings the Rose
Shall take Jamshyd and Kaikobad away.
X
Well, let it take them! What have we to do
With Kaikobad the Great, or Kaikhosru?
Let Zal and Rustum bluster as they will,
Or Hatim call to Supper--heed not you
XI
With me along the strip of Herbage strown
That just divides the desert from the sown,
Where name of Slave and Sultan is forgot--
And Peace to Mahmud on his golden Throne!
XII
A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread--and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness--
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!
XIII
Some for the Glories of This World; and some
Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come;
Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go,
Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!
XIV
Look to the blowing Rose about us--"Lo,
Laughing," she says, "into the world I blow,
At once the silken tassel of my Purse
Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw."
XV
And those who husbanded the Golden grain,
And those who flung it to the winds like Rain,
Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn'd
As, buried once, Men want dug up again.
XVI
The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon
Turns Ashes--or it prospers; and anon,
Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face,
Lighting a little hour or two--is gone.
XVII
Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai
Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day,
How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp
Abode his destined Hour, and went his way.
XVIII
They say the Lion and the Lizard keep
The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep:
And Bahram, that great Hunter--the Wild Ass
Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep.
XIX
I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;
That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.
XX
And this reviving Herb whose tender Green
Fledges the River-Lip on which we lean--
Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows
From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!
تاریخ نخستین خوانش این نسخه: در ماه فوریه سال 2004میلادی
عنوان: رباعیات عمر خیام با ترجمه انگلیسی؛ شاعر: عمر خیام؛ موضوع: شعر شاعران ایرانی - سده 12م
***
این کوزه چو من عاشق زاری بوده ست، - در بند سر زلف نگاری بوده ست
این دسته که بر گردن او میبینی، - دستی است که بر گردن یاری بودست
***
هرچند که رنگ و روی زیباست مرا، - چون لاله رخ و چو سرو بالاست مرا
معلوم نشد که در طربخانه ی خاک، - نقاش ازل بهر چه آراست مرا
خیام
در دفترم دوازده نسخه از این کتاب مستطاب هنوز هم هست؛ برای همین است مشخصات نسخه های چاپ شده را، در این ریویو نمیبینید، بسیار هستند و نوشتن تکه ای از پاره های نشر نیز، دردی را از پژوهشگران، درمان نخواهد کرد، و نمیکند؛ تاریخ نخستین خوانش این فراموشکار، از خیام دلآویز نیز به دوره ی «دبیرستان فیوضات تبریز» برمیگردد، سالهای 1342هجری خورشیدی به بعد، چند سال پیشتر نیز خواستم نسخه ی روانشاد «ادوارد فیتزجرالد» را با نسخه های کهن موجود در اینترنت، برابر نهم، و برای خود پژوهشیکی کنم، شاید که گرهی گشوده شود؛ بیشتر نسخه ها را گرد آوردم، و صفحاتی چند، از نسخه ی چاپ شده ی «فیتز جرالد» را نیز، یافتم، سپس به نسخه های روانشاد «هدایت»، و دیگران پرداختم، هنوز هم گاه دستی بالا میزنم و چند خطی مینگارم
تاریخ بهنگام رسانی 25/07/1399هجری خورشیدی؛ 12/07/1400هجری خورشیدی؛ ا. شربیانی
October 9, 2020
آشنایی من با حکیم، بر می گردد به دوران کودکی. آن دوران که هنوز زیاد از شعر و شاعری نمی دانستم و اگر کتاب خیام، میان آن همه کتاب شعرِ کتابخانه ی پدرم توجه مرا جلب کرد، به خاطر طرح جلد رؤیایی اش بود: نگارگری ای که عده ای منجم دستار به سر را نشان میداد که با حیرت به آسمان سحر انگیزِ بالای سرشان نگاه می کردند. در پیش زمینه، پیری با موهای سفید وآشفته نشسته بود و لبخندی رندانه بر لب داشت. دستش را بالا آورده بود که یعنی: «می بینید که!» زیر نگارگری، مصرعی از حکیم نوشته بود که: اجرام که ساکنان این ایوانند.
فضای خانه، همیشه مخالف علاقه ای بود که من بدون خواندن رباعیات خیام و تنها با دیدن نگارگری های موجود در کتاب، به او پیدا کرده بودم. همه او را زندیق و می خواره می خواندند. این تصویر منفی، تا سال ها در ذهن من باقی ماند.
گذشت، تا سال ها بعد، سه رباعی از خیام را در کتاب ادبیات فارسی خواندم. اولین رباعی هایی بود که از او می خواندم و به کلی، مغایر تصویری که از او در ذهنم بود. هیچ معنای خلافی در آن ها نیافتم. همان روز، وقتی به خانه آمدم، پس از سال ها کتاب مهجور رباعیات خیام را برداشتم و ورق زدم و این بار، نگارگری ها نبودند که من را به خیام علاقه مند می کردند، خود رباعیات بودند.
از آن پس، آن کتاب که گذار سالیان شیرازه اش را نابود کرده بود، شد دوست و همراه من. حتی در بستر خواب هم همراهش داشتم. یادم نمی رود. عصر یک روز، مادرم اصرار می کرد که کتاب را کنار بگذارم و بخوابم. من کتاب را بستم، اما همین که چشم مادر را دور دیدم، باز گشودمش و خواندمش و خواندمش و خواندمش. تا جایی که دیگر چشم هایم توان بیدار ماندن نداشتند.
رؤیای بی تصویر آن روزم، سرشار بود از رباعیات خیام. نمی دانم آن ها را می خواندم یا می شنیدم یا از ذهنم می گذراندم.
از آن روز، خیام شد شاعر من! قبل از آن، اگر سعدی و حافظ را شاعران بزرگی میدانستم یا اشعار مولوی را ضعیف می دانستم، فقط به خاطر این بود که پدرم و برادر بزرگترم این چنین می گفتند. اما خیام، اولین کسی بود که من به رغم فضای خانواده می پرستیدمش.
بعدنوشت: سه رباعی خیام از کتابهای درسی حذف شده و با اشعاری تبلیغاتی جایگزین شده، و من به همهٔ نوجوانهایی فکر میکنم که امکان تجربهٔ جهانهایی جادویی ازشان سلب میشود، و به جایش تجربهٔ ادبیات برایشان میشود چیزی از جنس اخبارهای تلویزیون.
فضای خانه، همیشه مخالف علاقه ای بود که من بدون خواندن رباعیات خیام و تنها با دیدن نگارگری های موجود در کتاب، به او پیدا کرده بودم. همه او را زندیق و می خواره می خواندند. این تصویر منفی، تا سال ها در ذهن من باقی ماند.
گذشت، تا سال ها بعد، سه رباعی از خیام را در کتاب ادبیات فارسی خواندم. اولین رباعی هایی بود که از او می خواندم و به کلی، مغایر تصویری که از او در ذهنم بود. هیچ معنای خلافی در آن ها نیافتم. همان روز، وقتی به خانه آمدم، پس از سال ها کتاب مهجور رباعیات خیام را برداشتم و ورق زدم و این بار، نگارگری ها نبودند که من را به خیام علاقه مند می کردند، خود رباعیات بودند.
از آن پس، آن کتاب که گذار سالیان شیرازه اش را نابود کرده بود، شد دوست و همراه من. حتی در بستر خواب هم همراهش داشتم. یادم نمی رود. عصر یک روز، مادرم اصرار می کرد که کتاب را کنار بگذارم و بخوابم. من کتاب را بستم، اما همین که چشم مادر را دور دیدم، باز گشودمش و خواندمش و خواندمش و خواندمش. تا جایی که دیگر چشم هایم توان بیدار ماندن نداشتند.
رؤیای بی تصویر آن روزم، سرشار بود از رباعیات خیام. نمی دانم آن ها را می خواندم یا می شنیدم یا از ذهنم می گذراندم.
از آن روز، خیام شد شاعر من! قبل از آن، اگر سعدی و حافظ را شاعران بزرگی میدانستم یا اشعار مولوی را ضعیف می دانستم، فقط به خاطر این بود که پدرم و برادر بزرگترم این چنین می گفتند. اما خیام، اولین کسی بود که من به رغم فضای خانواده می پرستیدمش.
بعدنوشت: سه رباعی خیام از کتابهای درسی حذف شده و با اشعاری تبلیغاتی جایگزین شده، و من به همهٔ نوجوانهایی فکر میکنم که امکان تجربهٔ جهانهایی جادویی ازشان سلب میشود، و به جایش تجربهٔ ادبیات برایشان میشود چیزی از جنس اخبارهای تلویزیون.
April 1, 2022
رباعیات عمر حیام = Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, Omar Khayyám, Sir Edward FitzGerald (Translator)
Written 1120 A.C.E. Omar Khayyam was born at Naishapur in Khorassan in the latter half of Eleventh Century, and died within the First Quarter of Twelfth Century.
In Spring time I love to sit in the meadow with a paramour
perfect as a Houri and goodly jar of wine, and though
I may be blamed for this, yet hold me lower
than a dog if ever I dream of Paradise.
در فصل بهار اگر بتی حور سرشت
یک ساغر مِی دهد مرا بر لب کشت
هر چند به نزد عامه این باشد زشت
سگ به ز من است اگر برم نام بهشت
تاریخ نخستین خوانش: در سال1963میلادی ؛ خوانش این نسخه : سال1996میلادی
این گلستان مطابق با نسخه ی «محمدعلی فروغی ذکاء الملک»، همراه با ترجمه ی «انگلیسی»، «سر ادوارد فیتز جرالد» و ترجمه از زبان «فرانسه» توسط «دکتر مهدی فولادوند» به خط جناب «امیر احمد فلسفی» با بهره گیری از آثار نگارگران معاصر «ایران»، آقایان: «غلامرضا اسماعیل زاده»، «امیر طهماسبی»، «حسنعلی ماچیانی»، «عبدالله محرمی»، «هوشنگ نعمتی» و «رضا یساولی» تدوین یافته است؛ بخش «فرانسه و انگلیسی» این کتاب، مزین به آثار نقاشان برجسته ی «مکتب صفویه»، «استاد رضا عباسی»، «استاد افضل الحسینی» و «استاد معین» مصور میباشد، که در سال1375هجری خورشیدی توسط انتشارات فرهنگسرا یساولی با بهره گیری از خدمات لیتوگرافی کوه نور و فرآیند گویا در تیراژ5000نسخه در سازمان چاپ و انتشارات به زیور طبع آراسته و در صحافی گوهر تجلید گردیده است
چند رباعی برگزیده
جامی ست که عقل آفرین می��ندش، - صد بوسه ی مهر، بر جبین میزندش
این کوزه گر دهر چنین جام لطیف، - میسازد، و باز، برزمین میزندش
***
ای کاش که جای آرمیدن بودی، - یا این ره دور را رسیدن بودی
یا از پس صد هزار سال از دل خاک، - چون سبزه امید بردمیدن بودی
***
این کوزه چو من عاشق زاری بوده ست، - در بند سر زلف نگاری بوده ست
این دسته که بر گردن او می بینی، - دستی است که بر گردن یاری بودست
***
هرچند که رنگ و روی زیباست مرا، - چون لاله رخ و چو سرو بالاست مرا
معلوم نشد که در طربخانه ی خاک، - نقاش ازل بهر چه آراست مرا
خیام
تاریخ بهنگام رسانی 27/03/1400هجری خورشیدی؛ 10/01/1401هجری خورشیدی؛ ا. شربیانی
Written 1120 A.C.E. Omar Khayyam was born at Naishapur in Khorassan in the latter half of Eleventh Century, and died within the First Quarter of Twelfth Century.
In Spring time I love to sit in the meadow with a paramour
perfect as a Houri and goodly jar of wine, and though
I may be blamed for this, yet hold me lower
than a dog if ever I dream of Paradise.
در فصل بهار اگر بتی حور سرشت
یک ساغر مِی دهد مرا بر لب کشت
هر چند به نزد عامه این باشد زشت
سگ به ز من است اگر برم نام بهشت
تاریخ نخستین خوانش: در سال1963میلادی ؛ خوانش این نسخه : سال1996میلادی
این گلستان مطابق با نسخه ی «محمدعلی فروغی ذکاء الملک»، همراه با ترجمه ی «انگلیسی»، «سر ادوارد فیتز جرالد» و ترجمه از زبان «فرانسه» توسط «دکتر مهدی فولادوند» به خط جناب «امیر احمد فلسفی» با بهره گیری از آثار نگارگران معاصر «ایران»، آقایان: «غلامرضا اسماعیل زاده»، «امیر طهماسبی»، «حسنعلی ماچیانی»، «عبدالله محرمی»، «هوشنگ نعمتی» و «رضا یساولی» تدوین یافته است؛ بخش «فرانسه و انگلیسی» این کتاب، مزین به آثار نقاشان برجسته ی «مکتب صفویه»، «استاد رضا عباسی»، «استاد افضل الحسینی» و «استاد معین» مصور میباشد، که در سال1375هجری خورشیدی توسط انتشارات فرهنگسرا یساولی با بهره گیری از خدمات لیتوگرافی کوه نور و فرآیند گویا در تیراژ5000نسخه در سازمان چاپ و انتشارات به زیور طبع آراسته و در صحافی گوهر تجلید گردیده است
چند رباعی برگزیده
جامی ست که عقل آفرین می��ندش، - صد بوسه ی مهر، بر جبین میزندش
این کوزه گر دهر چنین جام لطیف، - میسازد، و باز، برزمین میزندش
***
ای کاش که جای آرمیدن بودی، - یا این ره دور را رسیدن بودی
یا از پس صد هزار سال از دل خاک، - چون سبزه امید بردمیدن بودی
***
این کوزه چو من عاشق زاری بوده ست، - در بند سر زلف نگاری بوده ست
این دسته که بر گردن او می بینی، - دستی است که بر گردن یاری بودست
***
هرچند که رنگ و روی زیباست مرا، - چون لاله رخ و چو سرو بالاست مرا
معلوم نشد که در طربخانه ی خاک، - نقاش ازل بهر چه آراست مرا
خیام
تاریخ بهنگام رسانی 27/03/1400هجری خورشیدی؛ 10/01/1401هجری خورشیدی؛ ا. شربیانی
December 24, 2022
الإعجاز فى المجاز
من يقرأ هذا الكتاب فى اطار المعقول سيكفّر الشاعر او على الأقل سيتهمه بالزندقه
لكن ما هكذا نقرأ الشعر و لا هكذا نتذوق الفن
01
سمعتُ صوتاً هاتفاً في السّحَر
نادى مِن الحانِ : غُفاة البشَر
هبُّوا املأوا كأس الطلى قبَل أن
تَفعم كأس العمرْ كفّ القدَر
02
أحسُّ في نفسي دبيب الفناء
ولم أصَب في العيشِ إلاّ الشقاء
يا حسرتا إن حانَ حيني ولم
يُتحْ لفكري حلّ لُغز القضاء
03
أفق وهات الكأس أنعمُ بها
واكشف خفايا النفس مِن حُجبها
وروّ أوصالي بها قَبلَما
يُصاغ دنّ الخمَر مِن تُربها
04
تروحُ أيامي ولا تغتدي
كما تهبُّ الريح في الفدفدِ
وما طويتَ النفس هماً عَلى
يومين : أمسْ المنقضى والغدِ
05
سمعتُ في حلمي صوتاً أهابَ
ما فتَّق النّوم كمام الشبابَ
أفق فإنَّ النّوم صنو الردى
واشرب فمثواكَ فراش الترابَ
06
لو أنّني خُيَّرت أو كانَ لي
مفتاحُ باب القدر المقفلِ
لاخترتَ عن دنيا الأسى أنّني
لم أهبطَ الدُنيا ولم أرحلِ
07
لَبستُ ثوبَ العيش لم أُستشَر
وحرتُ فيه بين شتّى الفِكَر
وسوفَ أنضو الثوب عنّي ولم
أُدرك لماذا جئتُ . أينَ المقر
08
نمضي وتبقى العيشةُ الراضية
وتنمحي آثارُنا الماضية
فقَبل أن نَحيا ومِن بعدِنا
وهذه الدُنيا علَى ما هيه
09
يا نفسَ ماهذا الأسى والكدر
قَد وقعَ الإثم وضاع الحذر
هَل ذاقَ حلو العفوَ إلاّ الَّذي
أذنبَ والله عفَا واغتفر
10
نلبسُ بينَ الناس ثوب الرياء
ونحنُ في قبضةِ كفّ القضاء
وكم سعينا نرتجي مهرباً
فكانَ مسعَانَا جميعاً هباء
11
يامَن يَحارُ الفَهمُ في قدرتك
وتطلبُ النَفسُ حمى طاعتك
أسكرَني الإثمُ ولكنّني
صحوَت بالآمال في رحمتك
12
قلبي في صدري أسيرٌ سجين
تُخجلهُ عشرةُ ماءٍ وطين
وكم جرى عزمي بتحطيمه
فكانَ يَنهاني نداءُ اليقين
13
لا تَشغل البَال بماضي الزمان
ولا بَآتي العيش قبلَ الأوان
واغنم مِن الحاضرِ لذّاتهِ
فليسَ في طبعِ اللَّيالي الأمان
14
القلبُ قَد أضناهُ عِشق الجمال
والصدرُ قَد ضاقَ بما لا يُقال
يا ربْ هل يُرضيك هذا الظما
والماءُ ينساب أمامي زُلال
15
وإنَّما نحنُ رخاخ القضاء
ينقلنا في اللوحِ أنّى يشاء
وكلُّ مَن يفرغ مِن دورهِ
يُلقَى به في مستقّرِ الفناء
16
رأيتُ صفّاً مِن دنانٍ سرى
ما بينها همسُ حديثٍ جرى
كأنّها تسألُ : أينَ الَّذي
قَد صاغَنا أوباعَنا أو شرى
17
هل في مجالِ السكون شىءٌ بديع
أحلى مِن الكأسِ وزهرُ الربيع
عجبتُ للخمّار هل يشترى
بمالهِ أحسنَ مما يبيع !
18
عش راضياً واهجر دواعي الألم
واعدل مع الظَالم مهما ظلَم
نهايةُ الدُنيا فناءٌ فَعش
فيها طليقاً واعتبرها عدم
19
لا تأمل الخلَّ المقيم الوفاء
فإنَّما أنتَ بدنيا الرياء
تحمَّل الداء ولا تلتمس
لهُ دواءً وانفرد بالشقاء
20
لا توحشَ النفس بخوف الظّنون
واغنم مِن الحاضرِ أمَنْ اليقين
فقد تساوى في الثرى راحلٌ
غداً وماضٍ مِن ألوف السنين
January 16, 2015
I kept thinking about the Rubaiyat last week while I was translating Zep's Happy Sex. I understand that Fitzgerald's translation is extremely non-literal, and almost amounts to a new poem - there is a nice piece by Borges discussing this unusual collaboration between two poets from different cultures and centuries. But what are you supposed to do when you translate poetry? Literal translation seems pointless. I had similar problems while trying to translate Zep's sexy French jokes. If the result wasn't sexy or funny, it seemed to me that I must have failed.
Well, I've worked with machine translation for a while, and I suddenly wondered if the theoretical framework it gives you makes it possible to explore these issues in a more precise way. Here's a Powerpoint slide showing the fundamental equation of statistical machine translation, the technique which for example powers Google Translate:
What this says is that decoding (translating) amounts to finding words (the e-best) which optimize the product of the translation model, P(f|e) and the language model, P(e). The translation model measures how likely it is that the translated words correspond to the original ones. The language model measures how plausible the translated words are per se.
When translating literature, the language model should presumably take into account the genre. If you're translating a moving epic love poem, the language model should measure the probability that a string of words is a moving epic love poem. Similarly, if you're translating a sexy joke, it should measure the probability that a string of words is a sexy joke.
The problem is that there's a tension between the translation model and the language model. If you optimize the translation model term, and get a very literal translation, you're going to be far from optimal on the language model term. Now (I'm thinking aloud here) why is the problem so acute when you're translating literature? It seems to me that the answer lies in the unusually strong constraints associated with the demands of literary text. Even requiring a text string to be a sexy joke is a strong constraint. Most literal translations, though they may be grammatical and even idiomatic, will have a low probability of being sexy jokes. By accepting a lower value for P(f|e), though, you have a better chance of improving your score for P(e). Your optimum tradeoff point is most likely going to have a lowish P(f|e), and hence be fairly non-literal.
Requiring a text string to be a moving epic love poem is an exceptionally strong constraint. The probability that a literal translation is going to meet this constraint is vanishingly small. So the optimum tradeoff point will most likely have an even lower P(f|e), and hence be even less literal.
Ah, my hands are getting tired from being waved around so much...
Well, I've worked with machine translation for a while, and I suddenly wondered if the theoretical framework it gives you makes it possible to explore these issues in a more precise way. Here's a Powerpoint slide showing the fundamental equation of statistical machine translation, the technique which for example powers Google Translate:
What this says is that decoding (translating) amounts to finding words (the e-best) which optimize the product of the translation model, P(f|e) and the language model, P(e). The translation model measures how likely it is that the translated words correspond to the original ones. The language model measures how plausible the translated words are per se.
When translating literature, the language model should presumably take into account the genre. If you're translating a moving epic love poem, the language model should measure the probability that a string of words is a moving epic love poem. Similarly, if you're translating a sexy joke, it should measure the probability that a string of words is a sexy joke.
The problem is that there's a tension between the translation model and the language model. If you optimize the translation model term, and get a very literal translation, you're going to be far from optimal on the language model term. Now (I'm thinking aloud here) why is the problem so acute when you're translating literature? It seems to me that the answer lies in the unusually strong constraints associated with the demands of literary text. Even requiring a text string to be a sexy joke is a strong constraint. Most literal translations, though they may be grammatical and even idiomatic, will have a low probability of being sexy jokes. By accepting a lower value for P(f|e), though, you have a better chance of improving your score for P(e). Your optimum tradeoff point is most likely going to have a lowish P(f|e), and hence be fairly non-literal.
Requiring a text string to be a moving epic love poem is an exceptionally strong constraint. The probability that a literal translation is going to meet this constraint is vanishingly small. So the optimum tradeoff point will most likely have an even lower P(f|e), and hence be even less literal.
Ah, my hands are getting tired from being waved around so much...
May 26, 2021
امشب خوندن خیام برام حال دیگهای داشت، اشکهای امشبم معنی دیگهای داشت.
۵ خرداد ۱۴۰۰
----------------------------
من آدمی نیستم که اهل شعر و شاعری باشم یا شب یلدا دلم لک بزنه واسه شعر های حافظ و هر سال حتما غزلیات و سعدی و حافظ جزئی از سفره هفت سينم باشه!
تا به حال نتونستم سر یک شعر کامل شاهنامه بشینم و اونو تا آخر بخونم!
فروغ و خوندم و دوست نداشتم و با سهراب حتا ارتباط هم نگرفتم. شاملو رو دوست داشتم ولی همیشه حس میکردم چیزی کم داشت!
همه ی اینارو گفتم که برسم به اینکه من آدميم که از شعر خوشم نمياد و ازش حس نمیگیرم اما رباعیات خیام و میخونم و همه احساس عالم توی من جریان پیدا میکنه. آرامش میگیرم،به فکر فرو میرم و گریه میکنم!
اما من خیلی اتفاقی با این کتاب آشنا شدم!
يادمه کلاس پنجم دبستان بودم و شب قبل از امتحان ریاضی بود. استرس زیادی داشتم و یه جا بند نمیشدم. بابام بهم گفت بیا تا صبح بیدار بمونیم و حرف بزنیم. قبول کردم. نشستم کنارش و منتظر شدم که بحث کردنمون شروع بشه. من و نشوند روی تخت و یه کتاب جیبی ولی قطور با جلد چرمی قهوه ای روشن گذاشت جلوم و گفت روژان این کتاب رباعیات خیامه. دارم شعراشو حفظ میکنم. از اول برات میخونم ببین درست میگم یا نه.
شروع کرد...
اسرار ازل را نه تو دانی و نه من
وین حل معما نه تو خوانی و نه من
هست از پس پرده گفت و گوی من و تو
چون پرده بر افتد نه تو مانی و نه من
میخوند و میخوند و من ناخودآگاه بیشتر علاقه مند میشدم که بعدی رو بشنوم
خوند و خوند و پرسیدم ازش تا رسید به این شعر که تمام احساساتم عمیقم نسبت به خیام از همین شعر شروع شد که اون شب اشکمو درآورد:
ای دوست بیا تا غم فردا نخوریم
وین یکدم عمر را غنمیت شمریم
فردا که از این دیر فنا در گذریم
با هفت هزار سالگان سر به سریم!
و بعد فهمیدم تمام چیزی که دنبالش بودم تو این کتاب و لا به لای مصراع این اشعاره
و فهمیدم چقد بزرگ بوده این آدم و چقد نابغه و چقد با احساس که یه بچه ی ۱۱ ساله رو یک شبه شیفته ی خودش میکنه.
میخوام بگم این کتاب جدا از کتاب شعر بودن کتابیه که از نظر من "اسرار ازل" توش نهفتس
اسراری که خیلی از ماها روزانه بدون توجه کردن بهشون از کنارشون میگذریم
و فکر میکنم دلیل علاقه شدیدم به این کتاب همینه چون اون شب من و از تاریکی کشید بیرون و با این کارش اشکمو در آورد و من تا ابد ازش ممنونم!
۵ خرداد ۱۴۰۰
----------------------------
من آدمی نیستم که اهل شعر و شاعری باشم یا شب یلدا دلم لک بزنه واسه شعر های حافظ و هر سال حتما غزلیات و سعدی و حافظ جزئی از سفره هفت سينم باشه!
تا به حال نتونستم سر یک شعر کامل شاهنامه بشینم و اونو تا آخر بخونم!
فروغ و خوندم و دوست نداشتم و با سهراب حتا ارتباط هم نگرفتم. شاملو رو دوست داشتم ولی همیشه حس میکردم چیزی کم داشت!
همه ی اینارو گفتم که برسم به اینکه من آدميم که از شعر خوشم نمياد و ازش حس نمیگیرم اما رباعیات خیام و میخونم و همه احساس عالم توی من جریان پیدا میکنه. آرامش میگیرم،به فکر فرو میرم و گریه میکنم!
اما من خیلی اتفاقی با این کتاب آشنا شدم!
يادمه کلاس پنجم دبستان بودم و شب قبل از امتحان ریاضی بود. استرس زیادی داشتم و یه جا بند نمیشدم. بابام بهم گفت بیا تا صبح بیدار بمونیم و حرف بزنیم. قبول کردم. نشستم کنارش و منتظر شدم که بحث کردنمون شروع بشه. من و نشوند روی تخت و یه کتاب جیبی ولی قطور با جلد چرمی قهوه ای روشن گذاشت جلوم و گفت روژان این کتاب رباعیات خیامه. دارم شعراشو حفظ میکنم. از اول برات میخونم ببین درست میگم یا نه.
شروع کرد...
اسرار ازل را نه تو دانی و نه من
وین حل معما نه تو خوانی و نه من
هست از پس پرده گفت و گوی من و تو
چون پرده بر افتد نه تو مانی و نه من
میخوند و میخوند و من ناخودآگاه بیشتر علاقه مند میشدم که بعدی رو بشنوم
خوند و خوند و پرسیدم ازش تا رسید به این شعر که تمام احساساتم عمیقم نسبت به خیام از همین شعر شروع شد که اون شب اشکمو درآورد:
ای دوست بیا تا غم فردا نخوریم
وین یکدم عمر را غنمیت شمریم
فردا که از این دیر فنا در گذریم
با هفت هزار سالگان سر به سریم!
و بعد فهمیدم تمام چیزی که دنبالش بودم تو این کتاب و لا به لای مصراع این اشعاره
و فهمیدم چقد بزرگ بوده این آدم و چقد نابغه و چقد با احساس که یه بچه ی ۱۱ ساله رو یک شبه شیفته ی خودش میکنه.
میخوام بگم این کتاب جدا از کتاب شعر بودن کتابیه که از نظر من "اسرار ازل" توش نهفتس
اسراری که خیلی از ماها روزانه بدون توجه کردن بهشون از کنارشون میگذریم
و فکر میکنم دلیل علاقه شدیدم به این کتاب همینه چون اون شب من و از تاریکی کشید بیرون و با این کارش اشکمو در آورد و من تا ابد ازش ممنونم!
February 15, 2024
- كان الخيام عالماً في أمور الفلسفة، بالإضافة إلى أنّه كان طبيبا�� بارعاً، تخصّص الخيام في علوم اللغة والدين، مثل: الفقه، والحديث، والمنطق، والقراءات، والسير، والنحو، والصرف، والعلوم الطبيعة. (ذكرت ما سبق كي يدري من لا يدري انه بصدد هامة كبيرة وليس شاعر يرمي الشعر بعد كأسي خمر!).
- يلتقي الخيام بأبي العلاء المعري في طبيعة فلسفته، ويبدو انه كان متأثراً جداً به.
- الترجمة جميلة وشاعرية واظنها الأقرب الى السمع العربي من الترجمات الأخرى، وهذا يحسب لأحمد رامي.
- الرباعيات تحتوي من الحكمة، والحب، والعشق، والجذب، والخمر، والنظرة الخاصة الى الماورائيات، والثورة على اساليب ذلك العصر، والهزء ممن يدعون الورع والزهد (الممتد الى اليوم) الكثير الكثير، فلا يمكن قراءة الرباعيات بروح "القاضي" والا ستتعب من يقرأها كثيراً...
- لا انصح بها ل"حاملي مفاتيح الجنة"
---
يا رب في فهمك حار البشر
وقصّر العاجز والمقتدر
تبعث نجواك وتبدو لهم
وهم بلا سمع يعي او بصر
---
- يلتقي الخيام بأبي العلاء المعري في طبيعة فلسفته، ويبدو انه كان متأثراً جداً به.
- الترجمة جميلة وشاعرية واظنها الأقرب الى السمع العربي من الترجمات الأخرى، وهذا يحسب لأحمد رامي.
- الرباعيات تحتوي من الحكمة، والحب، والعشق، والجذب، والخمر، والنظرة الخاصة الى الماورائيات، والثورة على اساليب ذلك العصر، والهزء ممن يدعون الورع والزهد (الممتد الى اليوم) الكثير الكثير، فلا يمكن قراءة الرباعيات بروح "القاضي" والا ستتعب من يقرأها كثيراً...
- لا انصح بها ل"حاملي مفاتيح الجنة"
---
يا رب في فهمك حار البشر
وقصّر العاجز والمقتدر
تبعث نجواك وتبدو لهم
وهم بلا سمع يعي او بصر
---
March 17, 2021
A great Sufi poet, Omar Khayyam, has written in his Ruba’iyat, his world-famous collection of poetry: "I am going to drink, to dance, to love. I am going to commit every kind of sin because I trust God is compassionate -- he will forgive. My sins are very small; his forgiveness is immense."
He was a famous mathematician too, renowned in his country. Omar Khayyam's book was burned in his day. Whenever a copy was found, it was burned by the priests, because this man was teaching such a dangerous idea. One of the enlightened Sufi mystics, what he is saying has immense truth in it. He does not mean that you should commit sin. Whatever you do -- if it is not right, don't do it again. If you feel it hurts somebody, don't do it again.
The songs of Omar Khayyam were translated by Western writers, but were not correctly understood. Edward Fitzgerald, who did an admirable rendering of Khayyam's songs, was not a Sufi. He took the word `wine' literally, for example. He also took the word `lover' literally, and did the same with `wineshop'. He read the Rubaiyat and tried to understand it with the help of a dictionary. Omar Khayyam was a Sufi fakir, a Sufi saint. When he speaks of wine, he is speaking of the wine about which Kabir is speaking: ‘And I’m drunk with boundless youth’.
Omar Khayyam is speaking of this too. The wineshop is the temple, the lover is the master, and the wine is none other than the wine of God. Fitzgerald made a great mistake when he translated the songs of Omar Khayyam literally, and many people in the West thought Khayyam was a drunkard and had written these songs in praise of wine. Many adaptations of the Rubaiyat were made from these translations of Fitzgerald's and were published all over the world, and so the wineshop of Omar Khayyam became world-famous. To understand a madman one must be mad, so if you wish to understand an enlightened man you will have to become enlightened yourself. The sign-language used by a dumb person can only be understood by another who is dumb. Fitzgerald did not realize this. If Omar Khayyam were to return to the world he would not be so displeased with anyone as he would be with Edward Fitzgerald. Fitzgerald made Khayyam's name famous throughout the world, but he did it in a very wrong way.
The Ruba’iyat is one of the most misunderstood books in the whole world. It is understood in its translation, it is misunderstood in its spirit. The translator could not bring the spirit to it.
Ruba’iyat is symbolic.
The Ruba’iyat talks of wine and women and nothing else; it sings of wine and women. The translators -- and there are many -- are all wrong. They are bound to be wrong because Omar Khayyam was a Sufi, a man who knows. When he talks of the woman he is talking about God. That is the way Sufis address God: "Beloved, O my beloved." And they always use the feminine for God. Nobody else in the world, in the whole history of humanity, has addressed God as a woman. Only Sufis address God as the beloved. And the 'wine' is that which happens between the lover and the beloved, it has nothing to do with grapes. The alchemy which happens between the lover and the beloved, between the disciple and the master, between the seeker and the sought, between the worshipper and his God -the alchemy. The transmutation-that is the wine. Ruba’iyat is so misunderstood…
“Drink wine that is life everlasting,
The source of youthful delight;
It burns like fire, but puts an end to grief,
It’s like the water of life, drink it.”
He was a famous mathematician too, renowned in his country. Omar Khayyam's book was burned in his day. Whenever a copy was found, it was burned by the priests, because this man was teaching such a dangerous idea. One of the enlightened Sufi mystics, what he is saying has immense truth in it. He does not mean that you should commit sin. Whatever you do -- if it is not right, don't do it again. If you feel it hurts somebody, don't do it again.
The songs of Omar Khayyam were translated by Western writers, but were not correctly understood. Edward Fitzgerald, who did an admirable rendering of Khayyam's songs, was not a Sufi. He took the word `wine' literally, for example. He also took the word `lover' literally, and did the same with `wineshop'. He read the Rubaiyat and tried to understand it with the help of a dictionary. Omar Khayyam was a Sufi fakir, a Sufi saint. When he speaks of wine, he is speaking of the wine about which Kabir is speaking: ‘And I’m drunk with boundless youth’.
Omar Khayyam is speaking of this too. The wineshop is the temple, the lover is the master, and the wine is none other than the wine of God. Fitzgerald made a great mistake when he translated the songs of Omar Khayyam literally, and many people in the West thought Khayyam was a drunkard and had written these songs in praise of wine. Many adaptations of the Rubaiyat were made from these translations of Fitzgerald's and were published all over the world, and so the wineshop of Omar Khayyam became world-famous. To understand a madman one must be mad, so if you wish to understand an enlightened man you will have to become enlightened yourself. The sign-language used by a dumb person can only be understood by another who is dumb. Fitzgerald did not realize this. If Omar Khayyam were to return to the world he would not be so displeased with anyone as he would be with Edward Fitzgerald. Fitzgerald made Khayyam's name famous throughout the world, but he did it in a very wrong way.
The Ruba’iyat is one of the most misunderstood books in the whole world. It is understood in its translation, it is misunderstood in its spirit. The translator could not bring the spirit to it.
Ruba’iyat is symbolic.
The Ruba’iyat talks of wine and women and nothing else; it sings of wine and women. The translators -- and there are many -- are all wrong. They are bound to be wrong because Omar Khayyam was a Sufi, a man who knows. When he talks of the woman he is talking about God. That is the way Sufis address God: "Beloved, O my beloved." And they always use the feminine for God. Nobody else in the world, in the whole history of humanity, has addressed God as a woman. Only Sufis address God as the beloved. And the 'wine' is that which happens between the lover and the beloved, it has nothing to do with grapes. The alchemy which happens between the lover and the beloved, between the disciple and the master, between the seeker and the sought, between the worshipper and his God -the alchemy. The transmutation-that is the wine. Ruba’iyat is so misunderstood…
“Drink wine that is life everlasting,
The source of youthful delight;
It burns like fire, but puts an end to grief,
It’s like the water of life, drink it.”
July 22, 2021
The Ruba'iyat of Omar Khayyam, Omar Khayyám, Edward FitzGerald (Translator)
Written 1120 A.C.E.
Omar Khayyam was born at Naishapur in Khorassan in the latter half of Eleventh Century, and died within the First Quarter of Twelfth Century.
I
Wake! For the Sun, who scatter'd into flight
The Stars before him from the Field of Night,
Drives Night along with them from Heav'n, and strikes
The Sultan's Turret with a Shaft of Light.
II
Before the phantom of False morning died,
Methought a Voice within the Tavern cried,
"When all the Temple is prepared within,
Why nods the drowsy Worshipper outside?"
III
And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before
The Tavern shouted--"Open then the Door!
You know how little while we have to stay,
And, once departed, may return no more."
IV
Now the New Year reviving old Desires,
The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,
Where the White Hand Of Moses on the Bough
Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires.
V
Iram indeed is gone with all his Rose,
And Jamshyd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows;
But still a Ruby kindles in the Vine,
And many a Garden by the Water blows,
VI
And David's lips are lockt; but in divine
High-piping Pehlevi, with "Wine! Wine! Wine!
Red Wine!"--the Nightingale cries to the Rose
That sallow cheek of hers t' incarnadine.
VII
Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring
Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time bas but a little way
To flutter--and the Bird is on the Wing.
VIII
Whether at Naishapur or Babylon,
Whether the Cup with sweet or bitter run,
The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop,
The Leaves of Life keep falling one by one.
IX
Each Morn a thousand Roses brings, you say;
Yes, but where leaves the Rose of Yesterday?
And this first Summer month that brings the Rose
Shall take Jamshyd and Kaikobad away.
X
Well, let it take them! What have we to do
With Kaikobad the Great, or Kaikhosru?
Let Zal and Rustum bluster as they will,
Or Hatim call to Supper--heed not you
XI
With me along the strip of Herbage strown
That just divides the desert from the sown,
Where name of Slave and Sultan is forgot--
And Peace to Mahmud on his golden Throne!
XII
A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread--and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness--
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!
XIII
Some for the Glories of This World; and some
Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come;
Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go,
Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!
XIV
Look to the blowing Rose about us--"Lo,
Laughing," she says, "into the world I blow,
At once the silken tassel of my Purse
Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw."
XV
And those who husbanded the Golden grain,
And those who flung it to the winds like Rain,
Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn'd
As, buried once, Men want dug up again.
XVI
The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon
Turns Ashes--or it prospers; and anon,
Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face,
Lighting a little hour or two--is gone.
XVII
Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai
Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day,
How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp
Abode his destined Hour, and went his way.
XVIII
They say the Lion and the Lizard keep
The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep:
And Bahram, that great Hunter--the Wild Ass
Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep.
XIX
I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;
That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.
XX
And this reviving Herb whose tender Green
Fledges the River-Lip on which we lean--
Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows
From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!
XXI
Ah, my Belov'ed fill the Cup that clears
To-day Past Regrets and Future Fears:
To-morrow!--Why, To-morrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n Thousand Years.
XXII
For some we loved, the loveliest and the best
That from his Vintage rolling Time hath prest,
Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,
And one by one crept silently to rest.
XXIII
And we, that now make merry in the Room
They left, and Summer dresses in new bloom
Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth
Descend--ourselves to make a Couch--for whom?
XXIV
Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,
Before we too into the Dust descend;
Dust into Dust, and under Dust to lie
Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and--sans End!
XXV
Alike for those who for To-day prepare,
And those that after some To-morrow stare,
A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries
"Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There."
XXVI
Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss'd
Of the Two Worlds so wisely--they are thrust
Like foolish Prophets forth; their Words to Scorn
Are scatter'd, and their Mouths are stopt with Dust.
XXVII
Myself when young did eagerly frequent
Doctor and Saint, and heard great argument
About it and about: but evermore
Came out by the same door where in I went.
XXVIII
With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow,
And with mine own hand wrought to make it grow;
And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd--
"I came like Water, and like Wind I go."
XXIX
Into this Universe, and Why not knowing
Nor Whence, like Water willy-nilly flowing;
And out of it, as Wind along the Waste,
I know not Whither, willy-nilly blowing.
XXX
What, without asking, hither hurried Whence?
And, without asking, Whither hurried hence!
Oh, many a Cup of this forbidden Wine
Must drown the memory of that insolence!
XXXI
Up from Earth's Centre through the Seventh Gate
rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate;
And many a Knot unravel'd by the Road;
But not the Master-knot of Human Fate.
XXXII
There was the Door to which I found no Key;
There was the Veil through which I might not see:
Some little talk awhile of Me and Thee
There was--and then no more of Thee and Me.
XXXIII
Earth could not answer; nor the Seas that mourn
In flowing Purple, of their Lord forlorn;
Nor rolling Heaven, with all his Signs reveal'd
And hidden by the sleeve of Night and Morn.
XXXIV
Then of the Thee in Me works behind
The Veil, I lifted up my hands to find
A Lamp amid the Darkness; and I heard,
As from Without--"The Me Within Thee Blind!"
XXXV
Then to the lip of this poor earthen Urn
I lean'd, the Secret of my Life to learn:
And Lip to Lip it murmur'd--"While you live
Drink!--for, once dead, you never shall return."
XXXVI
I think the Vessel, that with fugitive
Articulation answer'd, once did live,
And drink; and Ah! the passive Lip I kiss'd,
How many Kisses might it take--and give!
XXXVII
For I remember stopping by the way
To watch a Potter thumping his wet Clay:
And with its all-obliterated Tongue
It murmur'd--"Gently, Brother, gently, pray!"
XXXVIII
And has not such a Story from of Old
Down Man's successive generations roll'd
Of such a clod of saturated Earth
Cast by the Maker into Human mould?
XXXIX
And not a drop that from our Cups we throw
For Earth to drink of, but may steal below
To quench the fire of Anguish in some Eye
There hidden--far beneath, and long ago.
XL
As then the Tulip for her morning sup
Of Heav'nly Vintage from the soil looks up,
Do you devoutly do the like, till Heav'n
To Earth invert you--like an empty Cup.
XLI
Perplext no more with Human or Divine,
To-morrow's tangle to the winds resign,
And lose your fingers in the tresses of
The Cypress--slender Minister of Wine.
XLII
And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press
End in what All begins and ends in--Yes;
Think then you are To-day what Yesterday
You were--To-morrow You shall not be less.
XLIII
So when that Angel of the darker Drink
At last shall find you by the river-brink,
And, offering his Cup, invite your Soul
Forth to your Lips to quaff--you shall not shrink.
XLIV
Why, if the Soul can fling the Dust aside,
And naked on the Air of Heaven ride,
Were't not a Shame--were't not a Shame for him
In this clay carcase crippled to abide?
XLV
'Tis but a Tent where takes his one day's rest
A Sultan to the realm of Death addrest;
The Sultan rises, and the dark Ferrash
Strikes, and prepares it for another Guest.
XLVI
And fear not lest Existence closing your
Account, and mine, should know the like no more;
The Eternal Saki from that Bowl has pour'd
Millions of Bubbles like us, and will pour.
XLVII
When You and I behind the Veil are past,
Oh, but the long, long while the World shall last,
Which of our Coming and Departure heeds
As the Sea's self should heed a pebble-cast.
XLVIII
A Moment's Halt--a momentary taste
Of Being from the Well amid the Waste--
And Lo!--the phantom Caravan has reach'd
The Nothing it set out from--Oh, make haste!
XLIX
Would you that spangle of Existence spend
About the Secret--Quick about it, Friend!
A Hair perhaps divides the False and True--
And upon what, prithee, may life depend?
L
A Hair perhaps divides the False and True;
Yes; and a single Alif were the clue--
Could you but find it--to the Treasure-house,
And peradventure to The Master too;
LI
Whose secret Presence, through Creation's veins
Running Quicksilver-like eludes your pains;
Taking all shapes from Mah to Mahi; and
They change and perish all--but He remains;
LII
A moment guess'd--then back behind the Fold
Immerst of Darkness round the Drama roll'd
Which, for the Pastime of Eternity,
He doth Himself contrive, enact, behold.
LIII
But if in vain, down on the stubborn floor
Of Earth, and up to Heav'n's unopening Door
You gaze To-day, while You are You--how then
To-morrow, You when shall be You no more?
LIV
Waste not your Hour, nor in the vain pursuit
Of This and That endeavour and dispute;
Better be jocund with the fruitful Grape
Than sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit.
LV
You know, my Friends, with what a brave Carouse
I made a Second Marriage in my house;
Divorced old barren Reason from my Bed
And took the Daughter of the Vine to Spouse.
LVI
For "Is" and "Is-not" though with Rule and Line
And "Up" and "Down" by Logic I define,
Of all that one should care to fathom,
Was never deep in anything but--Wine.
LVII
Ah, but my Computations, People say,
Reduced the Year to better reckoning?--Nay
'Twas only striking from the Calendar
Unborn To-morrow, and dead Yesterday.
LVIII
And lately, by the Tavern Door agape,
Came shining through the Dusk an Angel Shape
Bearing a Vessel on his Shoulder; and
He bid me taste of it; and 'twas--the Grape!
LIX
The Grape that can with Logic absolute
The Two-and-Seventy jarring Sects confute:
The sovereign Alchemist that in a trice
Life's leaden metal into Gold transmute:
LX
The mighty Mahmud, Allah-breathing Lord
That all the misbelieving and black Horde
Of Fears and Sorrows that infest the Soul
Scatters before him with his whirlwind Sword.
LXI
Why, be this Juice the growth of God, who dare
Blaspheme the twisted tendril as a Snare?
A Blessing, we should use it, should we not?
And if a Curse--why, then, Who set it there?
LXII
I must abjure the Balm of Life, I must,
Scared by some After-reckoning ta'en on trust,
Or lured with Hope of some Diviner Drink,
To fill the Cup--when crumbled into Dust!
LXIII
Oh, threats of Hell and Hopes of Paradise!
One thing at least is certain--This Life flies;
One thing is certain and the rest is Lies;
The Flower that once has blown for ever dies.
LXIV
Strange, is it not? that of the myriads who
Before us pass'd the door of Darkness through,
Not one returns to tell us of the Road,
Which to discover we must travel too.
LXV
The Revelations of Devout and Learn'd
Who rose before us, and as Prophets burn'd,
Are all but Stories, which, awoke from Sleep,
They told their comrades, and to Sleep return'd.
LXVI
I sent my Soul through the Invisible,
Some letter of that After-life to spell:
And by and by my Soul return'd to me,
And answer'd "I Myself am Heav'n and Hell:"
LXVII
Heav'n but the Vision of fulfill'd Desire,
And Hell the Shadow from a Soul on fire,
Cast on the Darkness into which Ourselves,
So late emerged from, shall so soon expire.
LXVIII
We are no other than a moving row
Of Magic Shadow-shapes that come and go
Round with the Sun-illumined Lantern held
In Midnight by the Master of the Show;
LXIX
But helpless Pieces of the Game He plays
Upon this Chequer-board of Nights and Days;
Hither and thither moves, and checks, and slays,
And one by one back in the Closet lays.
LXX
The Ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes,
But Here or There as strikes the Player goes;
And He that toss'd you down into the Field,
He knows about it all--He knows--HE knows!
LXXI
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.
LXXII
And that inverted Bowl they call the Sky,
Whereunder crawling coop'd we live and die,
Lift not your hands to It for help--for It
As impotently moves as you or I.
LXXIII
With Earth's first Clay They did the Last Man knead,
And there of the Last Harvest sow'd the Seed:
And the first Morning of Creation wrote
What the Last Dawn of Reckoning shall read.
LXXIV
Yesterday This Day's Madness did prepare;
To-morrow's Silence, Triumph, or Despair:
Drink! for you know not whence you came, nor why:
Drink! for you know not why you go, nor where.
LXXV
I tell you this--When, started from the Goal,
Over the flaming shoulders of the Foal
Of Heav'n Parwin and Mushtari they flung
In my predestined Plot of Dust and Soul.
LXXVI
The Vine had struck a fibre: which about
If clings my being--let the Dervish flout;
Of my Base metal may be filed a Key,
That shall unlock the Door he howls without.
LXXVII
And this I know: whether the one True Light
Kindle to Love, or Wrath-consume me quite,
One Flash of It within the Tavern caught
Better than in the Temple lost outright.
LXXVIII
What! out of senseless Nothing to provoke
A conscious Something to resent the yoke
Of unpermitted Pleasure, under pain
Of Everlasting Penalties, if broke!
LXXIX
What! from his helpless Creature be repaid
Pure Gold for what he lent him dross-allay'd--
Sue for a Debt he never did contract,
And cannot answer--Oh, the sorry trade!
LXXX
Oh, Thou, who didst with pitfall and with gin
Beset the Road I was to wander in,
Thou wilt not with Predestined Evil round
Enmesh, and then impute my Fall to Sin!
LXXXI
Oh, Thou who Man of baser Earth didst make,
And ev'n with Paradise devise the Snake:
For all the Sin wherewith the Face of Man
Is blacken'd--Man's forgiveness give--and take!
LXXXII
As under cover of departing Day
Slunk hunger-stricken Ramazan away,
Once more within the Potter's house alone
I stood, surrounded by the Shapes of Clay.
LXXXIII
Shapes of all Sorts and Sizes, great and small,
That stood along the floor and by the wall;
And some loquacious Vessels were; and some
Listen'd perhaps, but never talk'd at all.
LXXXIV
Said one among them--"Surely not in vain
My substance of the common Earth was ta'en
And to this Figure moulded, to be broke,
Or trampled back to shapeless Earth again."
LXXXV
Then said a Second--"Ne'er a peevish Boy
Would break the Bowl from which he drank in joy,
And He that with his hand the Vessel made
Will surely not in after Wrath destroy."
LXXXVI
After a momentary silence spake
Some Vessel of a more ungainly Make;
"They sneer at me for leaning all awry:
What! did the Hand then of the Potter shake?"
LXXXVII
Whereat some one of the loquacious Lot--
I think a Sufi pipkin-waxing hot--
"All this of Pot and Potter--Tell me then,
Who is the Potter, pray, and who the Pot?"
LXXXVIII
"Why," said another, "Some there are who tell
Of one who threatens he will toss to Hell
The luckless Pots he marr'd in making--Pish!
He's a Good Fellow, and 'twill all be well."
LXXXIX
"Well," Murmur'd one, "Let whoso make or buy,
My Clay with long Oblivion is gone dry:
But fill me with the old familiar juice,
Methinks I might recover by and by."
XC
So while the Vessels one by one were speaking,
The little Moon look'd in that all were seeking:
And then they jogg'd each other, "Brother! Brother!
Now for the Porter's shoulder-knot a-creaking!"
...
رباعیات خیام بر اساس نسخه محمدعلی فروغی؛ تاریخ نخستین خوانش این نسخه: ماد فوریه سال 2004میلادی
ظاهراً نخستین فردی که در ایران به فکر تعیین و تفکیک رباعیات اصیل «خیام» افتادند: روانشاد «غلامرضا رشید یاسمی» بودند؛ ایشان در نسخه ی «خیام» خویش که در سال 1303هجری خورشیدی منتشر کردند، از بین سیصدوچهل رباعی منتسب به «خیام»، دویست و چهل رباعی را قابل قبول دانستند؛ پس از ایشان روانشاد «صادق هدایت» نیز، در سال 1313هجری خورشیدی نسخه ای از «رباعیات خیام» را منتشر کردند؛ نسخهٔ «هدایت»، با عنوان: «ترانه های خیام» شامل یکصدونوزده رباعی بود؛ سپس در سال 1320هجری خورشیدی روانشاد «محمدعلی فروغی»، با استفاده از منابع کهن، جُنگها، و سفینه های کتابخانه های «ایران» و «ترکیه»، نسخه ای از «رباعیات خیام» را که شامل یکصدوهفتادوهشت رباعی منسوب به «خیام» بود، تهیه کردند؛ در سال 1336هجری خورشیدی نیز روانشاد «احمد شاملو» نسخه ای از «رباعیات خیام» را که دارای یکصدوبیست و پنج رباعی است، در کتابی با عنوان: «ترانه ها» ارائه کردند؛ روانشاد «علی دشتی» نیز در سال 1344هجری خورشیدی، در کتابی با عنوان «دمی با خیام»، هشادویک رباعی را «رباعیات حقیقی خیام» دانستند، و بیست رباعی دیگر را «خیامانه» خواندند؛ در سال 1385هجری خورشیدی نیز کتاب «دایرهٔ سپهر»، شامل متن کامل «رباعیات خیام»، به تصحیح «جاوید مقدس صدقیانی» به چاپ رسید؛
در دفترم، دوازده نسخه از این کتاب مستطاب، هنوز هم هست؛ برای همین است که مشخصات نسخه های چاپ شده را، در این ریویو نمیبینید، شمار چاپ و نشرها بسیار است، و نوشتن تکه ای از پاره های نشر نیز، دردی را از پژوهشگران، درمان نخواهد کرد، و نمیکند؛ تاریخ نخستین خوانش این فراموشکار از خیام دلآویز نیز، به دوره ی تحصیل در «دبیرستان فیوضات تبریز» این فراموشکار برمیگردد، سالهای 1342هجری شمسی به بعد، چند سال پیشتر بود، که خواستم و برخاستم تا نسخه ی روانشاد «ادوارد فیتزجرالد» را، با نسخه های کهن موجود در اینترنت، برابر نهم، و برای خود پژوهشکی کنم، شاید که گرهی گشوده شود؛ ��یشتر نسخه ها را گرد آوردم، و صفحاتی چند از نسخه ی چاپ شده ی «فیتز جرالد» را نیز یافتم، سپس به نسخه های «هدایت»، و دیگران پرداختم، هنوز هم گاه، دستی بالا میزنم، و چند خطی مینویسم
جامی ست که عقل آفرین میزندش، - صد بوسه ی مهر، بر جبین میزندش
این کوزه گر دهر چنین جام لطیف، - میسازد، و باز، برزمین میزندش
***
ای کاش که جای آرمیدن بودی، - یا این ره دور را رسیدن بودی
یا از پس صد هزار سال از دل خاک، - چون سبزه امید بردمیدن بودی
***
این کوزه چو من عاشق زاری بوده ست، - در بند سرِ زلفِ نگاری بوده ست
این دسته که بر گردن او میبینی، - دستی ست که بر گردن یاری بودست
***
هرچند که رنگ و روی، زیباست مرا، - چون لاله، رخ و، چو سرو، بالاست مرا
معلوم نشد، که در طربخانه ی خاک، - نقاش ازل، بهر چه آراست مرا
***
تاریخ بهنگام رسانی 30/04/1400هجری خورشیدی؛ ا. شربیانی
Written 1120 A.C.E.
Omar Khayyam was born at Naishapur in Khorassan in the latter half of Eleventh Century, and died within the First Quarter of Twelfth Century.
I
Wake! For the Sun, who scatter'd into flight
The Stars before him from the Field of Night,
Drives Night along with them from Heav'n, and strikes
The Sultan's Turret with a Shaft of Light.
II
Before the phantom of False morning died,
Methought a Voice within the Tavern cried,
"When all the Temple is prepared within,
Why nods the drowsy Worshipper outside?"
III
And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before
The Tavern shouted--"Open then the Door!
You know how little while we have to stay,
And, once departed, may return no more."
IV
Now the New Year reviving old Desires,
The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,
Where the White Hand Of Moses on the Bough
Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires.
V
Iram indeed is gone with all his Rose,
And Jamshyd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows;
But still a Ruby kindles in the Vine,
And many a Garden by the Water blows,
VI
And David's lips are lockt; but in divine
High-piping Pehlevi, with "Wine! Wine! Wine!
Red Wine!"--the Nightingale cries to the Rose
That sallow cheek of hers t' incarnadine.
VII
Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring
Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time bas but a little way
To flutter--and the Bird is on the Wing.
VIII
Whether at Naishapur or Babylon,
Whether the Cup with sweet or bitter run,
The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop,
The Leaves of Life keep falling one by one.
IX
Each Morn a thousand Roses brings, you say;
Yes, but where leaves the Rose of Yesterday?
And this first Summer month that brings the Rose
Shall take Jamshyd and Kaikobad away.
X
Well, let it take them! What have we to do
With Kaikobad the Great, or Kaikhosru?
Let Zal and Rustum bluster as they will,
Or Hatim call to Supper--heed not you
XI
With me along the strip of Herbage strown
That just divides the desert from the sown,
Where name of Slave and Sultan is forgot--
And Peace to Mahmud on his golden Throne!
XII
A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread--and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness--
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!
XIII
Some for the Glories of This World; and some
Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come;
Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go,
Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!
XIV
Look to the blowing Rose about us--"Lo,
Laughing," she says, "into the world I blow,
At once the silken tassel of my Purse
Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw."
XV
And those who husbanded the Golden grain,
And those who flung it to the winds like Rain,
Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn'd
As, buried once, Men want dug up again.
XVI
The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon
Turns Ashes--or it prospers; and anon,
Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face,
Lighting a little hour or two--is gone.
XVII
Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai
Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day,
How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp
Abode his destined Hour, and went his way.
XVIII
They say the Lion and the Lizard keep
The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep:
And Bahram, that great Hunter--the Wild Ass
Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep.
XIX
I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;
That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.
XX
And this reviving Herb whose tender Green
Fledges the River-Lip on which we lean--
Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows
From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!
XXI
Ah, my Belov'ed fill the Cup that clears
To-day Past Regrets and Future Fears:
To-morrow!--Why, To-morrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n Thousand Years.
XXII
For some we loved, the loveliest and the best
That from his Vintage rolling Time hath prest,
Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,
And one by one crept silently to rest.
XXIII
And we, that now make merry in the Room
They left, and Summer dresses in new bloom
Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth
Descend--ourselves to make a Couch--for whom?
XXIV
Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,
Before we too into the Dust descend;
Dust into Dust, and under Dust to lie
Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and--sans End!
XXV
Alike for those who for To-day prepare,
And those that after some To-morrow stare,
A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries
"Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There."
XXVI
Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss'd
Of the Two Worlds so wisely--they are thrust
Like foolish Prophets forth; their Words to Scorn
Are scatter'd, and their Mouths are stopt with Dust.
XXVII
Myself when young did eagerly frequent
Doctor and Saint, and heard great argument
About it and about: but evermore
Came out by the same door where in I went.
XXVIII
With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow,
And with mine own hand wrought to make it grow;
And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd--
"I came like Water, and like Wind I go."
XXIX
Into this Universe, and Why not knowing
Nor Whence, like Water willy-nilly flowing;
And out of it, as Wind along the Waste,
I know not Whither, willy-nilly blowing.
XXX
What, without asking, hither hurried Whence?
And, without asking, Whither hurried hence!
Oh, many a Cup of this forbidden Wine
Must drown the memory of that insolence!
XXXI
Up from Earth's Centre through the Seventh Gate
rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate;
And many a Knot unravel'd by the Road;
But not the Master-knot of Human Fate.
XXXII
There was the Door to which I found no Key;
There was the Veil through which I might not see:
Some little talk awhile of Me and Thee
There was--and then no more of Thee and Me.
XXXIII
Earth could not answer; nor the Seas that mourn
In flowing Purple, of their Lord forlorn;
Nor rolling Heaven, with all his Signs reveal'd
And hidden by the sleeve of Night and Morn.
XXXIV
Then of the Thee in Me works behind
The Veil, I lifted up my hands to find
A Lamp amid the Darkness; and I heard,
As from Without--"The Me Within Thee Blind!"
XXXV
Then to the lip of this poor earthen Urn
I lean'd, the Secret of my Life to learn:
And Lip to Lip it murmur'd--"While you live
Drink!--for, once dead, you never shall return."
XXXVI
I think the Vessel, that with fugitive
Articulation answer'd, once did live,
And drink; and Ah! the passive Lip I kiss'd,
How many Kisses might it take--and give!
XXXVII
For I remember stopping by the way
To watch a Potter thumping his wet Clay:
And with its all-obliterated Tongue
It murmur'd--"Gently, Brother, gently, pray!"
XXXVIII
And has not such a Story from of Old
Down Man's successive generations roll'd
Of such a clod of saturated Earth
Cast by the Maker into Human mould?
XXXIX
And not a drop that from our Cups we throw
For Earth to drink of, but may steal below
To quench the fire of Anguish in some Eye
There hidden--far beneath, and long ago.
XL
As then the Tulip for her morning sup
Of Heav'nly Vintage from the soil looks up,
Do you devoutly do the like, till Heav'n
To Earth invert you--like an empty Cup.
XLI
Perplext no more with Human or Divine,
To-morrow's tangle to the winds resign,
And lose your fingers in the tresses of
The Cypress--slender Minister of Wine.
XLII
And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press
End in what All begins and ends in--Yes;
Think then you are To-day what Yesterday
You were--To-morrow You shall not be less.
XLIII
So when that Angel of the darker Drink
At last shall find you by the river-brink,
And, offering his Cup, invite your Soul
Forth to your Lips to quaff--you shall not shrink.
XLIV
Why, if the Soul can fling the Dust aside,
And naked on the Air of Heaven ride,
Were't not a Shame--were't not a Shame for him
In this clay carcase crippled to abide?
XLV
'Tis but a Tent where takes his one day's rest
A Sultan to the realm of Death addrest;
The Sultan rises, and the dark Ferrash
Strikes, and prepares it for another Guest.
XLVI
And fear not lest Existence closing your
Account, and mine, should know the like no more;
The Eternal Saki from that Bowl has pour'd
Millions of Bubbles like us, and will pour.
XLVII
When You and I behind the Veil are past,
Oh, but the long, long while the World shall last,
Which of our Coming and Departure heeds
As the Sea's self should heed a pebble-cast.
XLVIII
A Moment's Halt--a momentary taste
Of Being from the Well amid the Waste--
And Lo!--the phantom Caravan has reach'd
The Nothing it set out from--Oh, make haste!
XLIX
Would you that spangle of Existence spend
About the Secret--Quick about it, Friend!
A Hair perhaps divides the False and True--
And upon what, prithee, may life depend?
L
A Hair perhaps divides the False and True;
Yes; and a single Alif were the clue--
Could you but find it--to the Treasure-house,
And peradventure to The Master too;
LI
Whose secret Presence, through Creation's veins
Running Quicksilver-like eludes your pains;
Taking all shapes from Mah to Mahi; and
They change and perish all--but He remains;
LII
A moment guess'd--then back behind the Fold
Immerst of Darkness round the Drama roll'd
Which, for the Pastime of Eternity,
He doth Himself contrive, enact, behold.
LIII
But if in vain, down on the stubborn floor
Of Earth, and up to Heav'n's unopening Door
You gaze To-day, while You are You--how then
To-morrow, You when shall be You no more?
LIV
Waste not your Hour, nor in the vain pursuit
Of This and That endeavour and dispute;
Better be jocund with the fruitful Grape
Than sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit.
LV
You know, my Friends, with what a brave Carouse
I made a Second Marriage in my house;
Divorced old barren Reason from my Bed
And took the Daughter of the Vine to Spouse.
LVI
For "Is" and "Is-not" though with Rule and Line
And "Up" and "Down" by Logic I define,
Of all that one should care to fathom,
Was never deep in anything but--Wine.
LVII
Ah, but my Computations, People say,
Reduced the Year to better reckoning?--Nay
'Twas only striking from the Calendar
Unborn To-morrow, and dead Yesterday.
LVIII
And lately, by the Tavern Door agape,
Came shining through the Dusk an Angel Shape
Bearing a Vessel on his Shoulder; and
He bid me taste of it; and 'twas--the Grape!
LIX
The Grape that can with Logic absolute
The Two-and-Seventy jarring Sects confute:
The sovereign Alchemist that in a trice
Life's leaden metal into Gold transmute:
LX
The mighty Mahmud, Allah-breathing Lord
That all the misbelieving and black Horde
Of Fears and Sorrows that infest the Soul
Scatters before him with his whirlwind Sword.
LXI
Why, be this Juice the growth of God, who dare
Blaspheme the twisted tendril as a Snare?
A Blessing, we should use it, should we not?
And if a Curse--why, then, Who set it there?
LXII
I must abjure the Balm of Life, I must,
Scared by some After-reckoning ta'en on trust,
Or lured with Hope of some Diviner Drink,
To fill the Cup--when crumbled into Dust!
LXIII
Oh, threats of Hell and Hopes of Paradise!
One thing at least is certain--This Life flies;
One thing is certain and the rest is Lies;
The Flower that once has blown for ever dies.
LXIV
Strange, is it not? that of the myriads who
Before us pass'd the door of Darkness through,
Not one returns to tell us of the Road,
Which to discover we must travel too.
LXV
The Revelations of Devout and Learn'd
Who rose before us, and as Prophets burn'd,
Are all but Stories, which, awoke from Sleep,
They told their comrades, and to Sleep return'd.
LXVI
I sent my Soul through the Invisible,
Some letter of that After-life to spell:
And by and by my Soul return'd to me,
And answer'd "I Myself am Heav'n and Hell:"
LXVII
Heav'n but the Vision of fulfill'd Desire,
And Hell the Shadow from a Soul on fire,
Cast on the Darkness into which Ourselves,
So late emerged from, shall so soon expire.
LXVIII
We are no other than a moving row
Of Magic Shadow-shapes that come and go
Round with the Sun-illumined Lantern held
In Midnight by the Master of the Show;
LXIX
But helpless Pieces of the Game He plays
Upon this Chequer-board of Nights and Days;
Hither and thither moves, and checks, and slays,
And one by one back in the Closet lays.
LXX
The Ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes,
But Here or There as strikes the Player goes;
And He that toss'd you down into the Field,
He knows about it all--He knows--HE knows!
LXXI
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.
LXXII
And that inverted Bowl they call the Sky,
Whereunder crawling coop'd we live and die,
Lift not your hands to It for help--for It
As impotently moves as you or I.
LXXIII
With Earth's first Clay They did the Last Man knead,
And there of the Last Harvest sow'd the Seed:
And the first Morning of Creation wrote
What the Last Dawn of Reckoning shall read.
LXXIV
Yesterday This Day's Madness did prepare;
To-morrow's Silence, Triumph, or Despair:
Drink! for you know not whence you came, nor why:
Drink! for you know not why you go, nor where.
LXXV
I tell you this--When, started from the Goal,
Over the flaming shoulders of the Foal
Of Heav'n Parwin and Mushtari they flung
In my predestined Plot of Dust and Soul.
LXXVI
The Vine had struck a fibre: which about
If clings my being--let the Dervish flout;
Of my Base metal may be filed a Key,
That shall unlock the Door he howls without.
LXXVII
And this I know: whether the one True Light
Kindle to Love, or Wrath-consume me quite,
One Flash of It within the Tavern caught
Better than in the Temple lost outright.
LXXVIII
What! out of senseless Nothing to provoke
A conscious Something to resent the yoke
Of unpermitted Pleasure, under pain
Of Everlasting Penalties, if broke!
LXXIX
What! from his helpless Creature be repaid
Pure Gold for what he lent him dross-allay'd--
Sue for a Debt he never did contract,
And cannot answer--Oh, the sorry trade!
LXXX
Oh, Thou, who didst with pitfall and with gin
Beset the Road I was to wander in,
Thou wilt not with Predestined Evil round
Enmesh, and then impute my Fall to Sin!
LXXXI
Oh, Thou who Man of baser Earth didst make,
And ev'n with Paradise devise the Snake:
For all the Sin wherewith the Face of Man
Is blacken'd--Man's forgiveness give--and take!
LXXXII
As under cover of departing Day
Slunk hunger-stricken Ramazan away,
Once more within the Potter's house alone
I stood, surrounded by the Shapes of Clay.
LXXXIII
Shapes of all Sorts and Sizes, great and small,
That stood along the floor and by the wall;
And some loquacious Vessels were; and some
Listen'd perhaps, but never talk'd at all.
LXXXIV
Said one among them--"Surely not in vain
My substance of the common Earth was ta'en
And to this Figure moulded, to be broke,
Or trampled back to shapeless Earth again."
LXXXV
Then said a Second--"Ne'er a peevish Boy
Would break the Bowl from which he drank in joy,
And He that with his hand the Vessel made
Will surely not in after Wrath destroy."
LXXXVI
After a momentary silence spake
Some Vessel of a more ungainly Make;
"They sneer at me for leaning all awry:
What! did the Hand then of the Potter shake?"
LXXXVII
Whereat some one of the loquacious Lot--
I think a Sufi pipkin-waxing hot--
"All this of Pot and Potter--Tell me then,
Who is the Potter, pray, and who the Pot?"
LXXXVIII
"Why," said another, "Some there are who tell
Of one who threatens he will toss to Hell
The luckless Pots he marr'd in making--Pish!
He's a Good Fellow, and 'twill all be well."
LXXXIX
"Well," Murmur'd one, "Let whoso make or buy,
My Clay with long Oblivion is gone dry:
But fill me with the old familiar juice,
Methinks I might recover by and by."
XC
So while the Vessels one by one were speaking,
The little Moon look'd in that all were seeking:
And then they jogg'd each other, "Brother! Brother!
Now for the Porter's shoulder-knot a-creaking!"
...
رباعیات خیام بر اساس نسخه محمدعلی فروغی؛ تاریخ نخستین خوانش این نسخه: ماد فوریه سال 2004میلادی
ظاهراً نخستین فردی که در ایران به فکر تعیین و تفکیک رباعیات اصیل «خیام» افتادند: روانشاد «غلامرضا رشید یاسمی» بودند؛ ایشان در نسخه ی «خیام» خویش که در سال 1303هجری خورشیدی منتشر کردند، از بین سیصدوچهل رباعی منتسب به «خیام»، دویست و چهل رباعی را قابل قبول دانستند؛ پس از ایشان روانشاد «صادق هدایت» نیز، در سال 1313هجری خورشیدی نسخه ای از «رباعیات خیام» را منتشر کردند؛ نسخهٔ «هدایت»، با عنوان: «ترانه های خیام» شامل یکصدونوزده رباعی بود؛ سپس در سال 1320هجری خورشیدی روانشاد «محمدعلی فروغی»، با استفاده از منابع کهن، جُنگها، و سفینه های کتابخانه های «ایران» و «ترکیه»، نسخه ای از «رباعیات خیام» را که شامل یکصدوهفتادوهشت رباعی منسوب به «خیام» بود، تهیه کردند؛ در سال 1336هجری خورشیدی نیز روانشاد «احمد شاملو» نسخه ای از «رباعیات خیام» را که دارای یکصدوبیست و پنج رباعی است، در کتابی با عنوان: «ترانه ها» ارائه کردند؛ روانشاد «علی دشتی» نیز در سال 1344هجری خورشیدی، در کتابی با عنوان «دمی با خیام»، هشادویک رباعی را «رباعیات حقیقی خیام» دانستند، و بیست رباعی دیگر را «خیامانه» خواندند؛ در سال 1385هجری خورشیدی نیز کتاب «دایرهٔ سپهر»، شامل متن کامل «رباعیات خیام»، به تصحیح «جاوید مقدس صدقیانی» به چاپ رسید؛
در دفترم، دوازده نسخه از این کتاب مستطاب، هنوز هم هست؛ برای همین است که مشخصات نسخه های چاپ شده را، در این ریویو نمیبینید، شمار چاپ و نشرها بسیار است، و نوشتن تکه ای از پاره های نشر نیز، دردی را از پژوهشگران، درمان نخواهد کرد، و نمیکند؛ تاریخ نخستین خوانش این فراموشکار از خیام دلآویز نیز، به دوره ی تحصیل در «دبیرستان فیوضات تبریز» این فراموشکار برمیگردد، سالهای 1342هجری شمسی به بعد، چند سال پیشتر بود، که خواستم و برخاستم تا نسخه ی روانشاد «ادوارد فیتزجرالد» را، با نسخه های کهن موجود در اینترنت، برابر نهم، و برای خود پژوهشکی کنم، شاید که گرهی گشوده شود؛ ��یشتر نسخه ها را گرد آوردم، و صفحاتی چند از نسخه ی چاپ شده ی «فیتز جرالد» را نیز یافتم، سپس به نسخه های «هدایت»، و دیگران پرداختم، هنوز هم گاه، دستی بالا میزنم، و چند خطی مینویسم
جامی ست که عقل آفرین میزندش، - صد بوسه ی مهر، بر جبین میزندش
این کوزه گر دهر چنین جام لطیف، - میسازد، و باز، برزمین میزندش
***
ای کاش که جای آرمیدن بودی، - یا این ره دور را رسیدن بودی
یا از پس صد هزار سال از دل خاک، - چون سبزه امید بردمیدن بودی
***
این کوزه چو من عاشق زاری بوده ست، - در بند سرِ زلفِ نگاری بوده ست
این دسته که بر گردن او میبینی، - دستی ست که بر گردن یاری بودست
***
هرچند که رنگ و روی، زیباست مرا، - چون لاله، رخ و، چو سرو، بالاست مرا
معلوم نشد، که در طربخانه ی خاک، - نقاش ازل، بهر چه آراست مرا
***
تاریخ بهنگام رسانی 30/04/1400هجری خورشیدی؛ ا. شربیانی
October 27, 2020
رباعيات خيام = The Rubáiyát, Omar Khayyám
The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám is the title that Edward FitzGerald gave to his translation of a selection of poems, originally written in Persian and numbering about a thousand, attributed to Omar Khayyám (1048–1131), a Persian poet, mathematician and astronomer. A Ruba'i is a two-line stanza with two parts (or hemstitch) per line, hence the word rubáiyát (derived from the Arabic language root for "Four"), meaning "Quatrains".
I
Wake! For the Sun, who scatter'd into flight
The Stars before him from the Field of Night,
Drives Night along with them from Heav'n, and strikes
The Sultan's Turret with a Shaft of Light.
II
Before the phantom of False morning died,
Methought a Voice within the Tavern cried,
"When all the Temple is prepared within,
Why nods the drowsy Worshipper outside?"
III
And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before
The Tavern shouted--"Open then the Door!
You know how little while we have to stay,
And, once departed, may return no more."
IV
Now the New Year reviving old Desires,
The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,
Where the White Hand Of Moses on the Bough
Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires.
V
Iram indeed is gone with all his Rose,
And Jamshyd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows;
But still a Ruby kindles in the Vine,
And many a Garden by the Water blows,
VI
And David's lips are lockt; but in divine
High-piping Pehlevi, with "Wine! Wine! Wine!
Red Wine!"--the Nightingale cries to the Rose
That sallow cheek of hers t' incarnadine.
VII
Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring
Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time bas but a little way
To flutter--and the Bird is on the Wing.
VIII
Whether at Naishapur or Babylon,
Whether the Cup with sweet or bitter run,
The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop,
The Leaves of Life keep falling one by one.
IX
Each Morn a thousand Roses brings, you say;
Yes, but where leaves the Rose of Yesterday?
And this first Summer month that brings the Rose
Shall take Jamshyd and Kaikobad away.
X
Well, let it take them! What have we to do
With Kaikobad the Great, or Kaikhosru?
Let Zal and Rustum bluster as they will,
Or Hatim call to Supper--heed not you
XI
With me along the strip of Herbage strown
That just divides the desert from the sown,
Where name of Slave and Sultan is forgot--
And Peace to Mahmud on his golden Throne!
XII
A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread--and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness--
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!
XIII
Some for the Glories of This World; and some
Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come;
Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go,
Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!
XIV
Look to the blowing Rose about us--"Lo,
Laughing," she says, "into the world I blow,
At once the silken tassel of my Purse
Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw."
XV
And those who husbanded the Golden grain,
And those who flung it to the winds like Rain,
Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn'd
As, buried once, Men want dug up again.
XVI
The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon
Turns Ashes--or it prospers; and anon,
Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face,
Lighting a little hour or two--is gone.
XVII
Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai
Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day,
How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp
Abode his destined Hour, and went his way.
XVIII
They say the Lion and the Lizard keep
The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep:
And Bahram, that great Hunter--the Wild Ass
Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep.
XIX
I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;
That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.
XX
And this reviving Herb whose tender Green
Fledges the River-Lip on which we lean--
Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows
From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!
XXI
Ah, my Belov'ed fill the Cup that clears
To-day Past Regrets and Future Fears:
To-morrow!--Why, To-morrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n Thousand Years.
XXII
For some we loved, the loveliest and the best
That from his Vintage rolling Time hath prest,
Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,
And one by one crept silently to rest.
XXIII
And we, that now make merry in the Room
They left, and Summer dresses in new bloom
Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth
Descend--ourselves to make a Couch--for whom?
XXIV
Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,
Before we too into the Dust descend;
Dust into Dust, and under Dust to lie
Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and--sans End!
XXV
Alike for those who for To-day prepare,
And those that after some To-morrow stare,
A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries
"Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There."
XXVI
Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss'd
Of the Two Worlds so wisely--they are thrust
Like foolish Prophets forth; their Words to Scorn
Are scatter'd, and their Mouths are stopt with Dust.
XXVII
Myself when young did eagerly frequent
Doctor and Saint, and heard great argument
About it and about: but evermore
Came out by the same door where in I went.
XXVIII
With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow,
And with mine own hand wrought to make it grow;
And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd--
"I came like Water, and like Wind I go."
XXIX
Into this Universe, and Why not knowing
Nor Whence, like Water willy-nilly flowing;
And out of it, as Wind along the Waste,
I know not Whither, willy-nilly blowing.
XXX
What, without asking, hither hurried Whence?
And, without asking, Whither hurried hence!
Oh, many a Cup of this forbidden Wine
Must drown the memory of that insolence!
XXXI
Up from Earth's Centre through the Seventh Gate
rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate;
And many a Knot unravel'd by the Road;
But not the Master-knot of Human Fate.
XXXII
There was the Door to which I found no Key;
There was the Veil through which I might not see:
Some little talk awhile of Me and Thee
There was--and then no more of Thee and Me.
XXXIII
Earth could not answer; nor the Seas that mourn
In flowing Purple, of their Lord forlorn;
Nor rolling Heaven, with all his Signs reveal'd
And hidden by the sleeve of Night and Morn.
XXXIV
Then of the Thee in Me works behind
The Veil, I lifted up my hands to find
A Lamp amid the Darkness; and I heard,
As from Without--"The Me Within Thee Blind!"
XXXV
Then to the lip of this poor earthen Urn
I lean'd, the Secret of my Life to learn:
And Lip to Lip it murmur'd--"While you live
Drink!--for, once dead, you never shall return."
XXXVI
I think the Vessel, that with fugitive
Articulation answer'd, once did live,
And drink; and Ah! the passive Lip I kiss'd,
How many Kisses might it take--and give!
XXXVII
For I remember stopping by the way
To watch a Potter thumping his wet Clay:
And with its all-obliterated Tongue
It murmur'd--"Gently, Brother, gently, pray!"
XXXVIII
And has not such a Story from of Old
Down Man's successive generations roll'd
Of such a clod of saturated Earth
Cast by the Maker into Human mould?
XXXIX
And not a drop that from our Cups we throw
For Earth to drink of, but may steal below
To quench the fire of Anguish in some Eye
There hidden--far beneath, and long ago.
XL
As then the Tulip for her morning sup
Of Heav'nly Vintage from the soil looks up,
Do you devoutly do the like, till Heav'n
To Earth invert you--like an empty Cup.
XLI
Perplext no more with Human or Divine,
To-morrow's tangle to the winds resign,
And lose your fingers in the tresses of
The Cypress--slender Minister of Wine.
XLII
And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press
End in what All begins and ends in--Yes;
Think then you are To-day what Yesterday
You were--To-morrow You shall not be less.
XLIII
So when that Angel of the darker Drink
At last shall find you by the river-brink,
And, offering his Cup, invite your Soul
Forth to your Lips to quaff--you shall not shrink.
XLIV
Why, if the Soul can fling the Dust aside,
And naked on the Air of Heaven ride,
Were't not a Shame--were't not a Shame for him
In this clay carcase crippled to abide?
XLV
'Tis but a Tent where takes his one day's rest
A Sultan to the realm of Death addrest;
The Sultan rises, and the dark Ferrash
Strikes, and prepares it for another Guest.
XLVI
And fear not lest Existence closing your
Account, and mine, should know the like no more;
The Eternal Saki from that Bowl has pour'd
Millions of Bubbles like us, and will pour.
XLVII
When You and I behind the Veil are past,
Oh, but the long, long while the World shall last,
Which of our Coming and Departure heeds
As the Sea's self should heed a pebble-cast.
XLVIII
A Moment's Halt--a momentary taste
Of Being from the Well amid the Waste--
And Lo!--the phantom Caravan has reach'd
The Nothing it set out from--Oh, make haste!
XLIX
Would you that spangle of Existence spend
About the Secret--Quick about it, Friend!
A Hair perhaps divides the False and True--
And upon what, prithee, may life depend?
L
A Hair perhaps divides the False and True;
Yes; and a single Alif were the clue--
Could you but find it--to the Treasure-house,
And peradventure to The Master too;
LI
Whose secret Presence, through Creation's veins
Running Quicksilver-like eludes your pains;
Taking all shapes from Mah to Mahi; and
They change and perish all--but He remains;
LII
A moment guess'd--then back behind the Fold
Immerst of Darkness round the Drama roll'd
Which, for the Pastime of Eternity,
He doth Himself contrive, enact, behold.
LIII
But if in vain, down on the stubborn floor
Of Earth, and up to Heav'n's unopening Door
You gaze To-day, while You are You--how then
To-morrow, You when shall be You no more?
LIV
Waste not your Hour, nor in the vain pursuit
Of This and That endeavour and dispute;
Better be jocund with the fruitful Grape
Than sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit.
LV
You know, my Friends, with what a brave Carouse
I made a Second Marriage in my house;
Divorced old barren Reason from my Bed
And took the Daughter of the Vine to Spouse.
LVI
For "Is" and "Is-not" though with Rule and Line
And "Up" and "Down" by Logic I define,
Of all that one should care to fathom,
Was never deep in anything but--Wine.
LVII
Ah, but my Computations, People say,
Reduced the Year to better reckoning?--Nay
'Twas only striking from the Calendar
Unborn To-morrow, and dead Yesterday.
LVIII
And lately, by the Tavern Door agape,
Came shining through the Dusk an Angel Shape
Bearing a Vessel on his Shoulder; and
He bid me taste of it; and 'twas--the Grape!
LIX
The Grape that can with Logic absolute
The Two-and-Seventy jarring Sects confute:
The sovereign Alchemist that in a trice
Life's leaden metal into Gold transmute:
LX
The mighty Mahmud, Allah-breathing Lord
That all the misbelieving and black Horde
Of Fears and Sorrows that infest the Soul
Scatters before him with his whirlwind Sword.
LXI
Why, be this Juice the growth of God, who dare
Blaspheme the twisted tendril as a Snare?
A Blessing, we should use it, should we not?
And if a Curse--why, then, Who set it there?
LXII
I must abjure the Balm of Life, I must,
Scared by some After-reckoning ta'en on trust,
Or lured with Hope of some Diviner Drink,
To fill the Cup--when crumbled into Dust!
LXIII
Oh, threats of Hell and Hopes of Paradise!
One thing at least is certain--This Life flies;
One thing is certain and the rest is Lies;
The Flower that once has blown for ever dies.
LXIV
Strange, is it not? that of the myriads who
Before us pass'd the door of Darkness through,
Not one returns to tell us of the Road,
Which to discover we must travel too.
LXV
The Revelations of Devout and Learn'd
Who rose before us, and as Prophets burn'd,
Are all but Stories, which, awoke from Sleep,
They told their comrades, and to Sleep return'd.
LXVI
I sent my Soul through the Invisible,
Some letter of that After-life to spell:
And by and by my Soul return'd to me,
And answer'd "I Myself am Heav'n and Hell:"
LXVII
Heav'n but the Vision of fulfill'd Desire,
And Hell the Shadow from a Soul on fire,
Cast on the Darkness into which Ourselves,
So late emerged from, shall so soon expire.
LXVIII
We are no other than a moving row
Of Magic Shadow-shapes that come and go
Round with the Sun-illumined Lantern held
In Midnight by the Master of the Show;
LXIX
But helpless Pieces of the Game He plays
Upon this Chequer-board of Nights and Days;
Hither and thither moves, and checks, and slays,
And one by one back in the Closet lays.
LXX
The Ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes,
But Here or There as strikes the Player goes;
And He that toss'd you down into the Field,
He knows about it all--He knows--HE knows!
LXXI
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.
LXXII
And that inverted Bowl they call the Sky,
Whereunder crawling coop'd we live and die,
Lift not your hands to It for help--for It
As impotently moves as you or I.
LXXIII
With Earth's first Clay They did the Last Man knead,
And there of the Last Harvest sow'd the Seed:
And the first Morning of Creation wrote
What the Last Dawn of Reckoning shall read.
LXXIV
Yesterday This Day's Madness did prepare;
To-morrow's Silence, Triumph, or Despair:
Drink! for you know not whence you came, nor why:
Drink! for you know not why you go, nor where.
LXXV
I tell you this--When, started from the Goal,
Over the flaming shoulders of the Foal
Of Heav'n Parwin and Mushtari they flung
In my predestined Plot of Dust and Soul.
تاریخ نخستین خوانش این نسخه: ماد فوریه سال 2004 میلادی
عنوان: رباعيات خيام؛ شاعر: عمر خیام؛ تصحیح: محمدعلی فروغی؛ قاسم غنی؛
در دفترم، دوازده نسخه از این کتاب مستطاب، هنوز هم هست؛ برای همین است که مشخصات نسخه های چاپ شده را، در این ریویو نمیبینید، بسیار زیاد است، و نوشتن تکه ای از پاره های نشر نیز، دردی را از پژوهشگران، درمان نخواهد کرد، و نمیکند؛ تاریخ نخستین خوانش این فراموشکار از خیام دلآویز نیز، به دوره ی دبیرستان فیوضات تبریز برمیگردد، سالهای 1342 هجری شمسی به بعد، چند سال پیشتر، خواستم نسخه ی روانشاد: ادوارد فیتزجرالد را، با نسخه های کهن موجود در اینترنت، برابر نهم، و و برای خود پژوهشی کنم، شاید که گرهی گشوده شود؛ بیشتر نسخه ها را گرد آوردم، و صفحاتی چند از نسخه ی چاپ شده ی فیتز جرالد را نیز یافتم، سپس به نسخه های هدایت، و دیگران پرداختم، هنوز هم گاه، دستی بالا میزنم، و چند خطی مینویسم
جامی ست که عقل آفرین میزندش، - صد بوسه ی مهر، بر جبین میزندش
این کوزه گر دهر چنین جام لطیف، - میسازد، و باز، برزمین میزندش
***
ای کاش که جای آرمیدن بودی، - یا این ره دور را رسیدن بودی
یا از پس صد هزار سال از دل خاک، - چون سبزه امید بردمیدن بودی
***
این کوزه چو من عاشق زاری بوده ست، - در بند سر زلف نگاری بوده ست
این دسته که بر گردن او می بینی، - دستی است که بر گردن یاری بودست
***
هرچند که رنگ و روی زیباست مرا، - چون لاله رخ و چو سرو بالاست مرا
معلوم نشد که در طربخانه ی خاک، - نقاش ازل بهر چه آراست مرا
خیام
تاریخ بهنگام رسانی 05/08/1399هجری خورشیدی؛ ا. شربیانی
The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám is the title that Edward FitzGerald gave to his translation of a selection of poems, originally written in Persian and numbering about a thousand, attributed to Omar Khayyám (1048–1131), a Persian poet, mathematician and astronomer. A Ruba'i is a two-line stanza with two parts (or hemstitch) per line, hence the word rubáiyát (derived from the Arabic language root for "Four"), meaning "Quatrains".
I
Wake! For the Sun, who scatter'd into flight
The Stars before him from the Field of Night,
Drives Night along with them from Heav'n, and strikes
The Sultan's Turret with a Shaft of Light.
II
Before the phantom of False morning died,
Methought a Voice within the Tavern cried,
"When all the Temple is prepared within,
Why nods the drowsy Worshipper outside?"
III
And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before
The Tavern shouted--"Open then the Door!
You know how little while we have to stay,
And, once departed, may return no more."
IV
Now the New Year reviving old Desires,
The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,
Where the White Hand Of Moses on the Bough
Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires.
V
Iram indeed is gone with all his Rose,
And Jamshyd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows;
But still a Ruby kindles in the Vine,
And many a Garden by the Water blows,
VI
And David's lips are lockt; but in divine
High-piping Pehlevi, with "Wine! Wine! Wine!
Red Wine!"--the Nightingale cries to the Rose
That sallow cheek of hers t' incarnadine.
VII
Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring
Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time bas but a little way
To flutter--and the Bird is on the Wing.
VIII
Whether at Naishapur or Babylon,
Whether the Cup with sweet or bitter run,
The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop,
The Leaves of Life keep falling one by one.
IX
Each Morn a thousand Roses brings, you say;
Yes, but where leaves the Rose of Yesterday?
And this first Summer month that brings the Rose
Shall take Jamshyd and Kaikobad away.
X
Well, let it take them! What have we to do
With Kaikobad the Great, or Kaikhosru?
Let Zal and Rustum bluster as they will,
Or Hatim call to Supper--heed not you
XI
With me along the strip of Herbage strown
That just divides the desert from the sown,
Where name of Slave and Sultan is forgot--
And Peace to Mahmud on his golden Throne!
XII
A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread--and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness--
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!
XIII
Some for the Glories of This World; and some
Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come;
Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go,
Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!
XIV
Look to the blowing Rose about us--"Lo,
Laughing," she says, "into the world I blow,
At once the silken tassel of my Purse
Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw."
XV
And those who husbanded the Golden grain,
And those who flung it to the winds like Rain,
Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn'd
As, buried once, Men want dug up again.
XVI
The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon
Turns Ashes--or it prospers; and anon,
Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face,
Lighting a little hour or two--is gone.
XVII
Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai
Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day,
How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp
Abode his destined Hour, and went his way.
XVIII
They say the Lion and the Lizard keep
The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep:
And Bahram, that great Hunter--the Wild Ass
Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep.
XIX
I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;
That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.
XX
And this reviving Herb whose tender Green
Fledges the River-Lip on which we lean--
Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows
From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!
XXI
Ah, my Belov'ed fill the Cup that clears
To-day Past Regrets and Future Fears:
To-morrow!--Why, To-morrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n Thousand Years.
XXII
For some we loved, the loveliest and the best
That from his Vintage rolling Time hath prest,
Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,
And one by one crept silently to rest.
XXIII
And we, that now make merry in the Room
They left, and Summer dresses in new bloom
Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth
Descend--ourselves to make a Couch--for whom?
XXIV
Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,
Before we too into the Dust descend;
Dust into Dust, and under Dust to lie
Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and--sans End!
XXV
Alike for those who for To-day prepare,
And those that after some To-morrow stare,
A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries
"Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There."
XXVI
Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss'd
Of the Two Worlds so wisely--they are thrust
Like foolish Prophets forth; their Words to Scorn
Are scatter'd, and their Mouths are stopt with Dust.
XXVII
Myself when young did eagerly frequent
Doctor and Saint, and heard great argument
About it and about: but evermore
Came out by the same door where in I went.
XXVIII
With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow,
And with mine own hand wrought to make it grow;
And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd--
"I came like Water, and like Wind I go."
XXIX
Into this Universe, and Why not knowing
Nor Whence, like Water willy-nilly flowing;
And out of it, as Wind along the Waste,
I know not Whither, willy-nilly blowing.
XXX
What, without asking, hither hurried Whence?
And, without asking, Whither hurried hence!
Oh, many a Cup of this forbidden Wine
Must drown the memory of that insolence!
XXXI
Up from Earth's Centre through the Seventh Gate
rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate;
And many a Knot unravel'd by the Road;
But not the Master-knot of Human Fate.
XXXII
There was the Door to which I found no Key;
There was the Veil through which I might not see:
Some little talk awhile of Me and Thee
There was--and then no more of Thee and Me.
XXXIII
Earth could not answer; nor the Seas that mourn
In flowing Purple, of their Lord forlorn;
Nor rolling Heaven, with all his Signs reveal'd
And hidden by the sleeve of Night and Morn.
XXXIV
Then of the Thee in Me works behind
The Veil, I lifted up my hands to find
A Lamp amid the Darkness; and I heard,
As from Without--"The Me Within Thee Blind!"
XXXV
Then to the lip of this poor earthen Urn
I lean'd, the Secret of my Life to learn:
And Lip to Lip it murmur'd--"While you live
Drink!--for, once dead, you never shall return."
XXXVI
I think the Vessel, that with fugitive
Articulation answer'd, once did live,
And drink; and Ah! the passive Lip I kiss'd,
How many Kisses might it take--and give!
XXXVII
For I remember stopping by the way
To watch a Potter thumping his wet Clay:
And with its all-obliterated Tongue
It murmur'd--"Gently, Brother, gently, pray!"
XXXVIII
And has not such a Story from of Old
Down Man's successive generations roll'd
Of such a clod of saturated Earth
Cast by the Maker into Human mould?
XXXIX
And not a drop that from our Cups we throw
For Earth to drink of, but may steal below
To quench the fire of Anguish in some Eye
There hidden--far beneath, and long ago.
XL
As then the Tulip for her morning sup
Of Heav'nly Vintage from the soil looks up,
Do you devoutly do the like, till Heav'n
To Earth invert you--like an empty Cup.
XLI
Perplext no more with Human or Divine,
To-morrow's tangle to the winds resign,
And lose your fingers in the tresses of
The Cypress--slender Minister of Wine.
XLII
And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press
End in what All begins and ends in--Yes;
Think then you are To-day what Yesterday
You were--To-morrow You shall not be less.
XLIII
So when that Angel of the darker Drink
At last shall find you by the river-brink,
And, offering his Cup, invite your Soul
Forth to your Lips to quaff--you shall not shrink.
XLIV
Why, if the Soul can fling the Dust aside,
And naked on the Air of Heaven ride,
Were't not a Shame--were't not a Shame for him
In this clay carcase crippled to abide?
XLV
'Tis but a Tent where takes his one day's rest
A Sultan to the realm of Death addrest;
The Sultan rises, and the dark Ferrash
Strikes, and prepares it for another Guest.
XLVI
And fear not lest Existence closing your
Account, and mine, should know the like no more;
The Eternal Saki from that Bowl has pour'd
Millions of Bubbles like us, and will pour.
XLVII
When You and I behind the Veil are past,
Oh, but the long, long while the World shall last,
Which of our Coming and Departure heeds
As the Sea's self should heed a pebble-cast.
XLVIII
A Moment's Halt--a momentary taste
Of Being from the Well amid the Waste--
And Lo!--the phantom Caravan has reach'd
The Nothing it set out from--Oh, make haste!
XLIX
Would you that spangle of Existence spend
About the Secret--Quick about it, Friend!
A Hair perhaps divides the False and True--
And upon what, prithee, may life depend?
L
A Hair perhaps divides the False and True;
Yes; and a single Alif were the clue--
Could you but find it--to the Treasure-house,
And peradventure to The Master too;
LI
Whose secret Presence, through Creation's veins
Running Quicksilver-like eludes your pains;
Taking all shapes from Mah to Mahi; and
They change and perish all--but He remains;
LII
A moment guess'd--then back behind the Fold
Immerst of Darkness round the Drama roll'd
Which, for the Pastime of Eternity,
He doth Himself contrive, enact, behold.
LIII
But if in vain, down on the stubborn floor
Of Earth, and up to Heav'n's unopening Door
You gaze To-day, while You are You--how then
To-morrow, You when shall be You no more?
LIV
Waste not your Hour, nor in the vain pursuit
Of This and That endeavour and dispute;
Better be jocund with the fruitful Grape
Than sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit.
LV
You know, my Friends, with what a brave Carouse
I made a Second Marriage in my house;
Divorced old barren Reason from my Bed
And took the Daughter of the Vine to Spouse.
LVI
For "Is" and "Is-not" though with Rule and Line
And "Up" and "Down" by Logic I define,
Of all that one should care to fathom,
Was never deep in anything but--Wine.
LVII
Ah, but my Computations, People say,
Reduced the Year to better reckoning?--Nay
'Twas only striking from the Calendar
Unborn To-morrow, and dead Yesterday.
LVIII
And lately, by the Tavern Door agape,
Came shining through the Dusk an Angel Shape
Bearing a Vessel on his Shoulder; and
He bid me taste of it; and 'twas--the Grape!
LIX
The Grape that can with Logic absolute
The Two-and-Seventy jarring Sects confute:
The sovereign Alchemist that in a trice
Life's leaden metal into Gold transmute:
LX
The mighty Mahmud, Allah-breathing Lord
That all the misbelieving and black Horde
Of Fears and Sorrows that infest the Soul
Scatters before him with his whirlwind Sword.
LXI
Why, be this Juice the growth of God, who dare
Blaspheme the twisted tendril as a Snare?
A Blessing, we should use it, should we not?
And if a Curse--why, then, Who set it there?
LXII
I must abjure the Balm of Life, I must,
Scared by some After-reckoning ta'en on trust,
Or lured with Hope of some Diviner Drink,
To fill the Cup--when crumbled into Dust!
LXIII
Oh, threats of Hell and Hopes of Paradise!
One thing at least is certain--This Life flies;
One thing is certain and the rest is Lies;
The Flower that once has blown for ever dies.
LXIV
Strange, is it not? that of the myriads who
Before us pass'd the door of Darkness through,
Not one returns to tell us of the Road,
Which to discover we must travel too.
LXV
The Revelations of Devout and Learn'd
Who rose before us, and as Prophets burn'd,
Are all but Stories, which, awoke from Sleep,
They told their comrades, and to Sleep return'd.
LXVI
I sent my Soul through the Invisible,
Some letter of that After-life to spell:
And by and by my Soul return'd to me,
And answer'd "I Myself am Heav'n and Hell:"
LXVII
Heav'n but the Vision of fulfill'd Desire,
And Hell the Shadow from a Soul on fire,
Cast on the Darkness into which Ourselves,
So late emerged from, shall so soon expire.
LXVIII
We are no other than a moving row
Of Magic Shadow-shapes that come and go
Round with the Sun-illumined Lantern held
In Midnight by the Master of the Show;
LXIX
But helpless Pieces of the Game He plays
Upon this Chequer-board of Nights and Days;
Hither and thither moves, and checks, and slays,
And one by one back in the Closet lays.
LXX
The Ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes,
But Here or There as strikes the Player goes;
And He that toss'd you down into the Field,
He knows about it all--He knows--HE knows!
LXXI
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.
LXXII
And that inverted Bowl they call the Sky,
Whereunder crawling coop'd we live and die,
Lift not your hands to It for help--for It
As impotently moves as you or I.
LXXIII
With Earth's first Clay They did the Last Man knead,
And there of the Last Harvest sow'd the Seed:
And the first Morning of Creation wrote
What the Last Dawn of Reckoning shall read.
LXXIV
Yesterday This Day's Madness did prepare;
To-morrow's Silence, Triumph, or Despair:
Drink! for you know not whence you came, nor why:
Drink! for you know not why you go, nor where.
LXXV
I tell you this--When, started from the Goal,
Over the flaming shoulders of the Foal
Of Heav'n Parwin and Mushtari they flung
In my predestined Plot of Dust and Soul.
تاریخ نخستین خوانش این نسخه: ماد فوریه سال 2004 میلادی
عنوان: رباعيات خيام؛ شاعر: عمر خیام؛ تصحیح: محمدعلی فروغی؛ قاسم غنی؛
در دفترم، دوازده نسخه از این کتاب مستطاب، هنوز هم هست؛ برای همین است که مشخصات نسخه های چاپ شده را، در این ریویو نمیبینید، بسیار زیاد است، و نوشتن تکه ای از پاره های نشر نیز، دردی را از پژوهشگران، درمان نخواهد کرد، و نمیکند؛ تاریخ نخستین خوانش این فراموشکار از خیام دلآویز نیز، به دوره ی دبیرستان فیوضات تبریز برمیگردد، سالهای 1342 هجری شمسی به بعد، چند سال پیشتر، خواستم نسخه ی روانشاد: ادوارد فیتزجرالد را، با نسخه های کهن موجود در اینترنت، برابر نهم، و و برای خود پژوهشی کنم، شاید که گرهی گشوده شود؛ بیشتر نسخه ها را گرد آوردم، و صفحاتی چند از نسخه ی چاپ شده ی فیتز جرالد را نیز یافتم، سپس به نسخه های هدایت، و دیگران پرداختم، هنوز هم گاه، دستی بالا میزنم، و چند خطی مینویسم
جامی ست که عقل آفرین میزندش، - صد بوسه ی مهر، بر جبین میزندش
این کوزه گر دهر چنین جام لطیف، - میسازد، و باز، برزمین میزندش
***
ای کاش که جای آرمیدن بودی، - یا این ره دور را رسیدن بودی
یا از پس صد هزار سال از دل خاک، - چون سبزه امید بردمیدن بودی
***
این کوزه چو من عاشق زاری بوده ست، - در بند سر زلف نگاری بوده ست
این دسته که بر گردن او می بینی، - دستی است که بر گردن یاری بودست
***
هرچند که رنگ و روی زیباست مرا، - چون لاله رخ و چو سرو بالاست مرا
معلوم نشد که در طربخانه ی خاک، - نقاش ازل بهر چه آراست مرا
خیام
تاریخ بهنگام رسانی 05/08/1399هجری خورشیدی؛ ا. شربیانی
Read
August 20, 2020It is a flash from the stage of non-belief to faith,
There is no more than a syllable between doubt and certainty:
Prize this precious moment dearly,
It is our life's only fruit.
I had a palm size edition of Edward Fitzgerald's translation. He changed his translation over the years and there are big differences between some of the different published editions. Reading this, the Avery translation, was a shock because none of the verses were recognisable. At first I found myself like Pnin hankering after a wayward translation because it had its own strange music.
Nobody has known anything better than sparkling wine
Since the morning star and the moon graced the sky:
Wine-sellers astonish me because
What can they buy better than what they sell?
I'm not sure if Fitzgerald knew Persian, but in any case Avery's intention was to write a literal translation. Avery in the introduction is generous towards Fitzgerald's translation, which is well known and much loved. When it comes to translating poetry what the ill-tempered might call inaccuracy can be creativity, a reinvention of the original in an alien language which has its own foreign rhythm.
The year's caravan goes by swiftly,
Seize the cheerful moment:
Why sorrow, boy, over tomorrow's grief for friends?
Bring out the cup - the night passes.
Rereading what struck me was how repetitive many of the verses were. Some seem like variations of each other and the effect of reading them a little similar to reading Pascal's Pensées. The themes are the impermanence of life, the unknowability of the future and afterlife, the enjoyment of the present moment and Dust Thou Art, and Unto Dust Shalt Thou Return. A pie chart illustrating Khayyam's poetic impulses would not need many slices.
How long shall I grieve for what I have or have not,
Over whether to pass my life in pleasure?
Fill the wine-bowl - it is not certain
That I shall breathe out again the breath I now draw.
Khayyam was a mathematician, astrologer and philosopher. The attribution of verses to his name was made only after his death. Some were also attributed to other writers and it seems that only one four line verse can be reliably thought to have actually been composed by Khayyam (and this because Ata-Malik Juvaini tells us that some of the survivors of the sack of Baghdad recited it in his history of the Mongol conquests). I suppose our ignorance over the authorship only proves the poet's point about the impermanence of life.
These few odd days of life have passed
Like water down the brook, wind across the desert;
There are two days I have never been plagued with regret for,
Yesterday that has gone, tomorrow that will come.
June 7, 2010
In 1942, when my father was in the South Pacific, he asked for only one thing for Christmas...this book of poetry. My mother sent it to him with an inscription in the frontispiece which spoke wistfully of days to come. Later, he sent her a photo of him, reading this book, leaning back on a palm tree, with a bottle of wine and a loaf of bread on the cloth beside him...on the back of the photo, he wrote, "...all I'm missing is thou..."
Obviously, this book is a family treasure, and I cannot read it without remembering my parent's great love affair.
"Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring
The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To fly--and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing."
"Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,
A Flask of Wine, A Book of Verse--and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness--
And Wilderness is Paradise enow."
Obviously, this book is a family treasure, and I cannot read it without remembering my parent's great love affair.
"Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring
The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To fly--and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing."
"Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,
A Flask of Wine, A Book of Verse--and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness--
And Wilderness is Paradise enow."
April 26, 2016
I feel a bit awkward reviewing a book this short, so I’ll keep my review short as well. There are some very fine verses here, especially good to read before a night of drunken foolery. Although FitzGerald’s translation is known for being somewhat inaccurate, I wouldn’t even consider trading it for a more scrupulous edition. Instead, why not view the poems as an artistic collaboration between two great poets, across time and space?
When small-minded tin-eared scholars
Take a look at his verse and holler:
"Why! what grave and fatal inaccuracies!"
Resist the urge to grab them by the collar
When pencil-pushing professors sneer:
“FitzGerald’s version does not adhere
To the original Persian manuscript here!”
Pat them on the back and have another beer
October 22, 2021
قصائد الشاعر عمر الخيام تعكس فلسفته ورؤيته للحياة والموت
ما بين المتعة والعشق والسعادة وبين اليقين والأمل في العفو والمغفرة
الشاعر أحمد رامي ترجم الرباعيات عن الفارسية.. والترجمة جميلة وعذبة
نمضي وتبقى العيشة الراضية
وت��محي آثارنا الماضية
فقبل أن نحيا ومن بعدنا
وهذه الدنيا على ماهيَ
---------
إن لم أَكُن أَخلصتُ في طاعتِك
فإنني أطمعُ في رحمتِك
وإنما يَشفعُ لي أنني
قد عِشْتُ لا أُشركُ في وَحدَتِك
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أولى بهذا القلبِ أن يَخْفِقا
وفي ضِرامِ الحُبِّ أنْ يُحرَقا
ما أضْيَعَ اليومَ الذي مَرَّ بي
من غير أن أهْوى وأن أعْشَقا
----------
بيني وبين النفسِ حربٌ سِجال
وأنت يا رب شديدُ المِحال
أنتظرُ العفوَ ولكنني
خجلانٌ من عِلمِكَ سوء الفِعال
-----------
صفَا لكَ اليوم ورقَّ النسيم
وجالَ في الأزهارِ دمع الغيوم
ورجّعَ البلبل ألحانهُ
ي��ول هيّا اطرب وخلّ الهموم
ما بين المتعة والعشق والسعادة وبين اليقين والأمل في العفو والمغفرة
الشاعر أحمد رامي ترجم الرباعيات عن الفارسية.. والترجمة جميلة وعذبة
نمضي وتبقى العيشة الراضية
وت��محي آثارنا الماضية
فقبل أن نحيا ومن بعدنا
وهذه الدنيا على ماهيَ
---------
إن لم أَكُن أَخلصتُ في طاعتِك
فإنني أطمعُ في رحمتِك
وإنما يَشفعُ لي أنني
قد عِشْتُ لا أُشركُ في وَحدَتِك
----------
أولى بهذا القلبِ أن يَخْفِقا
وفي ضِرامِ الحُبِّ أنْ يُحرَقا
ما أضْيَعَ اليومَ الذي مَرَّ بي
من غير أن أهْوى وأن أعْشَقا
----------
بيني وبين النفسِ حربٌ سِجال
وأنت يا رب شديدُ المِحال
أنتظرُ العفوَ ولكنني
خجلانٌ من عِلمِكَ سوء الفِعال
-----------
صفَا لكَ اليوم ورقَّ النسيم
وجالَ في الأزهارِ دمع الغيوم
ورجّعَ البلبل ألحانهُ
ي��ول هيّا اطرب وخلّ الهموم
July 2, 2023
یک سال خیامخوانی من بالاخره به پایان رسید، ولی قطعاً در طول امسال و سالهای بعد هم این کتاب همراهمه. هروقت شدیداً دچار اضطراب میشدم رباعیهای خیام پناه من بود. انگار باهام حرف میزد و میگفت بسه آرزو جون :))) اینقدر حرص دنیا رو نخور :))) اونقدرام که فکر میکنی ارزششو نداره.
May 23, 2017
ماتزال ترجمة رامي أحسن تراجم هذه الرباعيات، وهي كذلك لا تلغي ترجمة أحمد فارس الشدياق، والنجفي والزهاوي ومحمد السباعي، وإن كانت ترجمة السباعي ذات كلمات موحشة مهجورة إلا أن بها رباعيات صورها قوية وغاية في القوة إلا أنها كغيرها اعتمدت على الترجمة الإنجليزية التي قام بها الأديب الإنجليزي Edward FitzGerald - في القرن التاسع عشر
ثم جل من جاء من بعده قام بنـشر الترجمة العربية نقلًا عن ترجمة هذا الأخيرمن الفارسية للإنجليزية
بإستثناء قلة من ترجمها مباشرة من لغتها الأم مثل أحمد رامي وجميل الزهاوي التي نشرها نثرًا وشعرًا
لتفهم شاعرية هذا الشاعر عمر الخيام يقال : عليك أن تفهم وتعي بعض الـشيء عن الصوفية وماذلك إلا من محاولات بعض الصوفية تقديس الخيام
رباعيات الخيام تحتاج فقط - من وجهة نظري الإيمان بروح هذا الشاعر أنها ماتزال حولنا فقط
ثم جل من جاء من بعده قام بنـشر الترجمة العربية نقلًا عن ترجمة هذا الأخيرمن الفارسية للإنجليزية
بإستثناء قلة من ترجمها مباشرة من لغتها الأم مثل أحمد رامي وجميل الزهاوي التي نشرها نثرًا وشعرًا
لتفهم شاعرية هذا الشاعر عمر الخيام يقال : عليك أن تفهم وتعي بعض الـشيء عن الصوفية وماذلك إلا من محاولات بعض الصوفية تقديس الخيام
رباعيات الخيام تحتاج فقط - من وجهة نظري الإيمان بروح هذا الشاعر أنها ماتزال حولنا فقط
March 12, 2018
The Ruba'iyat of Omar Khayyam, Omar Khayyám, Edward FitzGerald (Translator)
Written 1120 A.C.E. Omar Khayyam was born at Naishapur in Khorassan in the latter half of Eleventh Century, and died within the First Quarter of Twelfth Century.
تاریخ خوانش این نسخه: ماه فوریه سال 2004 میلادی
عنولن: رباعیات خیام؛ شاعر: خیام؛ به کوشش: خسرو زعیمی با همکاری انتشارات میراث؛ خط: کیخسرو خروش؛ تذهیب: محمدباقر آقامیری؛ ترجمه به انگلیسی: ادوارد فیتز��رالد؛ ترجمه به فرانسه: کلود آنت؛ موضوع: رباعیات خیام خط کیخسرو خروش به کوشش خسرو زعیمی سال 1362؛ در 275 ص؛
در دفترم دوازده نسخه از این کتاب مستطاب هنوز هم هست؛ برای همین است مشخصات نسخه های چاپ شده ی دیگر را در این ریویو نمیبینید، بسیار زیاد هستند و نوشتن تکه ای از پاره های نشر هم دردی را از پژوهشگران درمان نخواهد کرد، و نمیکند؛ تاریخ نخستین خوانش این فراموشکار از خیام دلآویز نیز به دوره ی دبیرستان فیوضات تبریز برمیگردد، سالهای 1342 هجری شمسی به بعد، چند سال پیشتر خواستم نسخه ی روانشاد: ادوارد فیتزجرالد را با نسخه های کهن موجود در اینترنت برابر نهم و برای خود پژوهشکی کنم شاید که گرهی گشوده شود؛ بیشتر نسخه ها را گرد آوردم و صفحاتی چند از نسخه ی چاپ شده ی فیتز جرالد را نیز یافتم، سپس به نسخه های هدایت و دیگران پرداختم، هنوز هم گاه دستی بالا میزنم و چند خطی مینویسم
برخیز و بیا بتا برای دل ما، حل کن به جمال خویشتن مشکل ما
یک کوزه شراب تا بهم نوش کنیم، زان پیش که کوزه ها کنند از گـِل ما
خیام
ا. شربیانی
Written 1120 A.C.E. Omar Khayyam was born at Naishapur in Khorassan in the latter half of Eleventh Century, and died within the First Quarter of Twelfth Century.
تاریخ خوانش این نسخه: ماه فوریه سال 2004 میلادی
عنولن: رباعیات خیام؛ شاعر: خیام؛ به کوشش: خسرو زعیمی با همکاری انتشارات میراث؛ خط: کیخسرو خروش؛ تذهیب: محمدباقر آقامیری؛ ترجمه به انگلیسی: ادوارد فیتز��رالد؛ ترجمه به فرانسه: کلود آنت؛ موضوع: رباعیات خیام خط کیخسرو خروش به کوشش خسرو زعیمی سال 1362؛ در 275 ص؛
در دفترم دوازده نسخه از این کتاب مستطاب هنوز هم هست؛ برای همین است مشخصات نسخه های چاپ شده ی دیگر را در این ریویو نمیبینید، بسیار زیاد هستند و نوشتن تکه ای از پاره های نشر هم دردی را از پژوهشگران درمان نخواهد کرد، و نمیکند؛ تاریخ نخستین خوانش این فراموشکار از خیام دلآویز نیز به دوره ی دبیرستان فیوضات تبریز برمیگردد، سالهای 1342 هجری شمسی به بعد، چند سال پیشتر خواستم نسخه ی روانشاد: ادوارد فیتزجرالد را با نسخه های کهن موجود در اینترنت برابر نهم و برای خود پژوهشکی کنم شاید که گرهی گشوده شود؛ بیشتر نسخه ها را گرد آوردم و صفحاتی چند از نسخه ی چاپ شده ی فیتز جرالد را نیز یافتم، سپس به نسخه های هدایت و دیگران پرداختم، هنوز هم گاه دستی بالا میزنم و چند خطی مینویسم
برخیز و بیا بتا برای دل ما، حل کن به جمال خویشتن مشکل ما
یک کوزه شراب تا بهم نوش کنیم، زان پیش که کوزه ها کنند از گـِل ما
خیام
ا. شربیانی
September 5, 2020
ای کاش که جای آرمیدن بودی
یا این ره دور را رسیدن بودی
یا از پس صد هزار سال از دل خاک
چون سبزه امید بردمیدن بودی
یا این ره دور را رسیدن بودی
یا از پس صد هزار سال از دل خاک
چون سبزه امید بردمیدن بودی
July 29, 2023
Rubā‘iyāt is simply the plural for rubā‘ī, a Persian term referring to a quatrain or four-line poem. Therefore there is no need to be put off by the title Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám. Think of the title as Quatrains of Omar Khayyám, or as Four-Line Poems of Omar Khayyám, if that will be more comfortable to you. But don’t miss out on reading these little poems, which hold their own unique power to delight, and additionally may be among the most influential and important poems ever written.
The poems’ author, Omar Khayyám (1048-1131), is one of those polymaths who did everything well and achieved in every field of endeavour. He is known today as “The Astronomer-Poet of Persia,” and he excelled not only as an astronomer-poet, but also as mathematician and philosopher. Conducting his work near court, at the time when the Kara-Khanid Khanate and the Seljuq dynasty held power, Omar Khayyám lived amidst the turbulent times of the First Crusade; but one would not know any of that from reading these poems, all of which resound with a full-throated appreciation of life, as when Omar Khayyám calls upon the reader of rubā‘ī VII to
Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring
The Winter Garment of Repentance fling.
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To fly – and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.
The reader who is new to the Rubáiyát certainly gets a strong sense of the depth and extent of the poems’ influence by the time he or she arrives at rubā‘ī XI:
Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,
A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse – and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness –
And Wilderness is Paradise enow.
This sentiment – usually shortened to “a loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and thou” – has no doubt been spoken at many picnics down the years, all over North America and Western Europe. I’m sure that the same idea has been expressed on countless Saint Valentine’s Day greeting cards. Yet how many of those who thus invoke this archetype know that they have a 12th-century Persian poet to thank for the manner in which they thus invoked the spirit of Romance? Not many, I think.`
The brevity and uncertainty of life is a major theme of the Rubáiyát, as when Omar Khayyám encourages the reader to seize the day:
Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,
Before we too into the Dust Descend:
Dust into Dust, and under Dust, to lie,
Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and – sans End!
Here, in rubā‘ī XXIII, Omar Khayyám sets forth his ideas in a manner that invites comparison with Genesis 3:19 – “for dust thou art, and unto dust thou shalt return.”
It is a pleasant thing to travel with Omar Khayyám, who even steps into his own poetry for a moment to invite the reader to travel with him, in rubā‘ī XXVI:
Oh, come with old Khayyam, and leave the Wise
To talk; one thing is certain, that Life flies;
One thing is certain, and the Rest is Lies;
The Flower that once has blown for ever dies.
Omar Khayyám, so well-educated and brilliant himself, sets at naught the self-proclaimed wisdom of “Doctor and Saint,” of “Saints and Sages,” culminating in one unforgettable image from rubā‘ī XXIV, addressed to people who focus on either today or tomorrow:
A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries,
“Fools! Your Reward is neither Here nor There.”
I appreciated Omar Khayyám’s invocation, in rubā‘ī XXXI, of the Ptolemaic system of astronomy, according to which the Earth was at the center of the Universe, with the sun, moon, and the five then-known planets all revolving in great concentric spheres around the Earth. Thus Omar Khayyám describes his journey up through the Ptolemaic spheres, in search of an answer to the insoluble mysteries of life:
Up from Earth’s Centre through the seventh Gate
I rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sat,
And many Knots unravelled by the Road;
But not the Knot of Human Death and Fate.
And rubā‘ī XLVI seemed to evoke the Allegory of the Cave from Plato’s Republic, where prisoners, imprisoned in a cave for all their lives, look at shadows on the back wall of the cave and believe they are seeing reality:
For in and out, above, about, below,
’Tis nothing but a Magic Shadow-Show,
Played in a Box whose Candle is the Sun,
Round which we Phantom Figures come and go.
Another of the most powerful metaphors in the Rubáiyát comes when Omar Khayyám, in rubā‘ī XLVIX, depicts human beings as little more than game-pieces in the hands of an infinitely more powerful force:
’Tis all a Chequerboard of Nights and Days
Where Destiny, with Men for Pieces, plays:
Hither and thither moves, and mates, and slays,
And one by one back in the Closet lays.
Here, I found myself thinking of images from the Ray Harryhausen movie Jason and the Argonauts (1963). Throughout the film, Zeus and Hera treat Jason of Thessaly’s quest for the Golden Fleece as a game being played on a board, with the bronze giant Talos and the Clashing Rocks and the sea-god Triton as pieces to be deployed as needed for different turns in the game. No doubt many of us, at many different points in our lives, have felt like pawns in some such game.
The history of the Western publication of the Rubáiyát is itself just as compelling and intriguing as the poems themselves. In 1859, the English poet Edward FitzGerald published a translation of the Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám; and that translation, initially a failure in financial terms, eventually took off and became a literary and cultural phenomenon. Dante Gabriel Rossetti, John Ruskin, and other writers and artists of the Pre-Raphaelite movement, with their embrace of colour and spontaneity and their hostility to mannerism, seized upon the Rubáiyát as a sort of cultural manifesto – and its “exotic” elements contributed to its allure amidst the Orientalism that was such a strong feature of late 19th-century British culture.
Thus the Rubáiyát became central to the Western literary conversation. Mark Twain wrote a parody of it in 1898. And when R.M.S. Titanic sank in 1912, with an expensive, jewel-encrusted copy of the Rubáiyát on board, the accumulated lore surrounding the poem only grew.
It has influenced literary work by Isaac Asimov, Jorge Luis Borges, Allen Drury, Daphne du Maurier, Christopher Hitchens, James Michener, Eugene O’Neill, Seán O’Casey, O. Henry, Saki, and Rex Stout. There are references to it in all sorts of movies: The Picture of Dorian Grey (1945), Duel in the Sun (1946), Back to the Future (1985), 12 Monkeys (1995). Even Rocky and Bullwinkle, the I Dream of Jeannie television show, and Charles Schulz’s Peanuts comic strip have referenced the Rubáiyát.
And another of the most famous lines from the Rubáiyát – one that many people may not originally identify with this book of poetry – comes when Omar Khayyám writes in rubā‘ī LI that “The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,/Moves on”.
This rubā‘ī may draw upon Chapter 5 of the Book of Daniel, when the wicked Babylonian crown prince Belshazzar, contemptuously drinking from golden cups taken from the Temple of Jerusalem, witnesses unmistakable evidence of divine disapproval of his actions: “In the same hour came forth fingers of a man’s hand, and wrote over against the candlestick upon the plaister of the wall of the king’s palace: and the king saw the part of the hand that wrote” (Daniel 5:5).
Whatever the passage’s origins, it fits right in with Omar Khayyám’s thematic emphasis on the brevity of life; but this line, all by itself, has taken on a life of its own. Agatha Christie gave a 1942 detective novel the title The Moving Finger. The Hollies, the British rock band, made Moving Finger the U.S. title of their 1970 album. Stephen King published his short story “The Moving Finger” in 1990.
And, as a scholar at the University of Leiden has pointed out, the moving-finger image, when combined with the rest of the quatrain – “nor all thy Piety nor Wit/Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,/Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it” – has been used by politicians to emphasize the idea that actions have consequences that cannot be revoked. Martin Luther King Jr. invoked the quatrain in a 1967 speech setting forth the shameful U.S. record in the Vietnam War and calling upon Americans to speak out openly in acknowledgement of the war’s human cost. And then-U.S. President Bill Clinton quoted the line in 1998 to emphasize his awareness that the Monica Lewinsky scandal would always be part of his legacy.
All in all, the Rubáiyát are just as challenging now as they were in the time of their publication. The theocrats who rule over contemporary Iran would probably not appreciate this great Persian’s repeated references to the joys of wine – even if one can make a good argument that the wine references are meant metaphorically, as an allusion to the idea of enjoying all the good things of life. Nor, I think, would they appreciate Omar Khayyám’s forthright statement that “I myself am Heaven and Hell.” But be that as it may, the Rubáiyát, many centuries after their composition, still give the reader much food for thought, expressed in quatrains as brief as they are evocative.
The poems’ author, Omar Khayyám (1048-1131), is one of those polymaths who did everything well and achieved in every field of endeavour. He is known today as “The Astronomer-Poet of Persia,” and he excelled not only as an astronomer-poet, but also as mathematician and philosopher. Conducting his work near court, at the time when the Kara-Khanid Khanate and the Seljuq dynasty held power, Omar Khayyám lived amidst the turbulent times of the First Crusade; but one would not know any of that from reading these poems, all of which resound with a full-throated appreciation of life, as when Omar Khayyám calls upon the reader of rubā‘ī VII to
Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring
The Winter Garment of Repentance fling.
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To fly – and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.
The reader who is new to the Rubáiyát certainly gets a strong sense of the depth and extent of the poems’ influence by the time he or she arrives at rubā‘ī XI:
Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,
A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse – and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness –
And Wilderness is Paradise enow.
This sentiment – usually shortened to “a loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and thou” – has no doubt been spoken at many picnics down the years, all over North America and Western Europe. I’m sure that the same idea has been expressed on countless Saint Valentine’s Day greeting cards. Yet how many of those who thus invoke this archetype know that they have a 12th-century Persian poet to thank for the manner in which they thus invoked the spirit of Romance? Not many, I think.`
The brevity and uncertainty of life is a major theme of the Rubáiyát, as when Omar Khayyám encourages the reader to seize the day:
Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,
Before we too into the Dust Descend:
Dust into Dust, and under Dust, to lie,
Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and – sans End!
Here, in rubā‘ī XXIII, Omar Khayyám sets forth his ideas in a manner that invites comparison with Genesis 3:19 – “for dust thou art, and unto dust thou shalt return.”
It is a pleasant thing to travel with Omar Khayyám, who even steps into his own poetry for a moment to invite the reader to travel with him, in rubā‘ī XXVI:
Oh, come with old Khayyam, and leave the Wise
To talk; one thing is certain, that Life flies;
One thing is certain, and the Rest is Lies;
The Flower that once has blown for ever dies.
Omar Khayyám, so well-educated and brilliant himself, sets at naught the self-proclaimed wisdom of “Doctor and Saint,” of “Saints and Sages,” culminating in one unforgettable image from rubā‘ī XXIV, addressed to people who focus on either today or tomorrow:
A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries,
“Fools! Your Reward is neither Here nor There.”
I appreciated Omar Khayyám’s invocation, in rubā‘ī XXXI, of the Ptolemaic system of astronomy, according to which the Earth was at the center of the Universe, with the sun, moon, and the five then-known planets all revolving in great concentric spheres around the Earth. Thus Omar Khayyám describes his journey up through the Ptolemaic spheres, in search of an answer to the insoluble mysteries of life:
Up from Earth’s Centre through the seventh Gate
I rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sat,
And many Knots unravelled by the Road;
But not the Knot of Human Death and Fate.
And rubā‘ī XLVI seemed to evoke the Allegory of the Cave from Plato’s Republic, where prisoners, imprisoned in a cave for all their lives, look at shadows on the back wall of the cave and believe they are seeing reality:
For in and out, above, about, below,
’Tis nothing but a Magic Shadow-Show,
Played in a Box whose Candle is the Sun,
Round which we Phantom Figures come and go.
Another of the most powerful metaphors in the Rubáiyát comes when Omar Khayyám, in rubā‘ī XLVIX, depicts human beings as little more than game-pieces in the hands of an infinitely more powerful force:
’Tis all a Chequerboard of Nights and Days
Where Destiny, with Men for Pieces, plays:
Hither and thither moves, and mates, and slays,
And one by one back in the Closet lays.
Here, I found myself thinking of images from the Ray Harryhausen movie Jason and the Argonauts (1963). Throughout the film, Zeus and Hera treat Jason of Thessaly’s quest for the Golden Fleece as a game being played on a board, with the bronze giant Talos and the Clashing Rocks and the sea-god Triton as pieces to be deployed as needed for different turns in the game. No doubt many of us, at many different points in our lives, have felt like pawns in some such game.
The history of the Western publication of the Rubáiyát is itself just as compelling and intriguing as the poems themselves. In 1859, the English poet Edward FitzGerald published a translation of the Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám; and that translation, initially a failure in financial terms, eventually took off and became a literary and cultural phenomenon. Dante Gabriel Rossetti, John Ruskin, and other writers and artists of the Pre-Raphaelite movement, with their embrace of colour and spontaneity and their hostility to mannerism, seized upon the Rubáiyát as a sort of cultural manifesto – and its “exotic” elements contributed to its allure amidst the Orientalism that was such a strong feature of late 19th-century British culture.
Thus the Rubáiyát became central to the Western literary conversation. Mark Twain wrote a parody of it in 1898. And when R.M.S. Titanic sank in 1912, with an expensive, jewel-encrusted copy of the Rubáiyát on board, the accumulated lore surrounding the poem only grew.
It has influenced literary work by Isaac Asimov, Jorge Luis Borges, Allen Drury, Daphne du Maurier, Christopher Hitchens, James Michener, Eugene O’Neill, Seán O’Casey, O. Henry, Saki, and Rex Stout. There are references to it in all sorts of movies: The Picture of Dorian Grey (1945), Duel in the Sun (1946), Back to the Future (1985), 12 Monkeys (1995). Even Rocky and Bullwinkle, the I Dream of Jeannie television show, and Charles Schulz’s Peanuts comic strip have referenced the Rubáiyát.
And another of the most famous lines from the Rubáiyát – one that many people may not originally identify with this book of poetry – comes when Omar Khayyám writes in rubā‘ī LI that “The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,/Moves on”.
This rubā‘ī may draw upon Chapter 5 of the Book of Daniel, when the wicked Babylonian crown prince Belshazzar, contemptuously drinking from golden cups taken from the Temple of Jerusalem, witnesses unmistakable evidence of divine disapproval of his actions: “In the same hour came forth fingers of a man’s hand, and wrote over against the candlestick upon the plaister of the wall of the king’s palace: and the king saw the part of the hand that wrote” (Daniel 5:5).
Whatever the passage’s origins, it fits right in with Omar Khayyám’s thematic emphasis on the brevity of life; but this line, all by itself, has taken on a life of its own. Agatha Christie gave a 1942 detective novel the title The Moving Finger. The Hollies, the British rock band, made Moving Finger the U.S. title of their 1970 album. Stephen King published his short story “The Moving Finger” in 1990.
And, as a scholar at the University of Leiden has pointed out, the moving-finger image, when combined with the rest of the quatrain – “nor all thy Piety nor Wit/Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,/Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it” – has been used by politicians to emphasize the idea that actions have consequences that cannot be revoked. Martin Luther King Jr. invoked the quatrain in a 1967 speech setting forth the shameful U.S. record in the Vietnam War and calling upon Americans to speak out openly in acknowledgement of the war’s human cost. And then-U.S. President Bill Clinton quoted the line in 1998 to emphasize his awareness that the Monica Lewinsky scandal would always be part of his legacy.
All in all, the Rubáiyát are just as challenging now as they were in the time of their publication. The theocrats who rule over contemporary Iran would probably not appreciate this great Persian’s repeated references to the joys of wine – even if one can make a good argument that the wine references are meant metaphorically, as an allusion to the idea of enjoying all the good things of life. Nor, I think, would they appreciate Omar Khayyám’s forthright statement that “I myself am Heaven and Hell.” But be that as it may, the Rubáiyát, many centuries after their composition, still give the reader much food for thought, expressed in quatrains as brief as they are evocative.
December 8, 2013
من ظاهر نیستی و هستی دانم
من باطن هر فراز و پستی دانم
با این هـمه از دانش خود شرمم باد
گـر مرتبه ای ورای مستی دانم
***
یاران چو به اتفاق دیدار کنید
باید که ز دوست یاد بسیار کنید
چون باده خوشگوار نوشید به هم
نوبت چو به ما رسد نگونسار کنید
من باطن هر فراز و پستی دانم
با این هـمه از دانش خود شرمم باد
گـر مرتبه ای ورای مستی دانم
***
یاران چو به اتفاق دیدار کنید
باید که ز دوست یاد بسیار کنید
چون باده خوشگوار نوشید به هم
نوبت چو به ما رسد نگونسار کنید
May 4, 2015
عمر الخيام :) ... واضح جدا من اشعاره انه كان من الدهريين .. المؤمنين بالله و بالاسلام و القرآن (لكن بيأولوا معانيه و احكامه على هواهم) ..، و الغير مؤمنين بالبعث و الحساب و الجنة و النار ،
الشيطان عندهم ارقى و افضل من الانسان .. ماديين لأقصى حد .. و الخمر و النساء و الأموال و اللذة القريبة .. هي مقدساتهم اللى بيهيموا بيها ..
و ( عصفور في اليد خير من عشرة على الشجرة) .. حكمتهم الأثيرة اللي بتعبر عن تفكير ضحل ومادي .. حيواني .. و سفيه للغاية ! ..، يعني لذة قريبة من خمر او زنا افضل لهم من متعة روحية في الدنيا مع وعد بها و اضعاف مثلها في الآخرة ايضا
و مع ذلك استشعرت تردده تجاه عقيدته تلك من حين لآخر اثناء قرائتي لأشعاره .. و كأنه حاسس ان فلسفته و عقيدته باطلة و ان ضعفه امام الخمر ، و هواه هو ما حذى به الى الميل لها .. فكان من وقت لآخر بيطلب المغفره من ربنا و يستعطفه بغناه عز و جل عن حسابه .. و بيقر بذنبه و بضعفه امام الخمر .. الا انه بعد كل دعاء مثل هذا ، كان بيعود لمثل قوله و اكثر عن البعث و الحساب بأنهم خرافة و لتغزله في الخمر و هيامه بها .. !!
و في النهاية لما استسلم لنفسه و لاهوائه قاطبة بقى (يخبط) و يفلسف لنفسه زيادة و يلطش هنا شويه و هنا شويه :) و يجيب من هنا و من هناك ! .. ، يتكلم عن الجبرية و عن ان ��بنا خلقه كده و ارادله كده شويه ..
...
و يقول ان ربنا خلق المفاتن دي كلها عشان نستمتع بيها و يتساءل اومال هو خلقها ليه ؟؟ شويه
، و موش واصل له ان هو دا اختبارنا و امتحاننا و ان المطلوب مننا نصمد امام الفتن دي و نلجم انفسنا و نعلي ارواحنا و نسلمها الذمام ..
...
و شوية يلوم على ربنا عز و جل بعبثية و يصفه بالظالم
...
و بعدين يرجع للدهرية تاني
.....
المهم يبرر لنفسه و خلاص :) مكابرة منه و عند ، رغم ان الموضوع بسيط
!
و كأي سفيه .. بيخطأ و بدل مايحاول يقوم نفسه و يحاسب نفسه .. و يتحكم في نفسه .. بيهرب من دا بأنه يحاول يجر الناس كلها و يتهمهم باللي فيه ! .. و كل شوية يتهم الناس بالرياء ! .. الصائمين مراءين ، و القائمين مراءين ، و الذاكرين مراءين !! قمة السفه و انت كنت دخلت جوا قلوبهم ؟! :) .. طب و لو قاصد تشتم منهم الصائمين و القائمين و الذاكرين .. المراءين فقط .. موش دا معناه ان فيه آخرين غير مراءين مابتشغلش نفسك بيهم ليه طيب .. مابتتكلمش عنهم ليه دول .. و تحاول تفكر هما ليه صادقين و موش مراءين .. و لا خلاص كل الناس يا اما مراءين يا اما بلهاء .. ،
و حضرتك (يا اللي موش عارف تتحكم في نفسك و تسيب الخمر اللى مخلي عقلك فى اجازة و بتهرب بيها من التفكير اصلا) اللي حكمت بدا !!!؟
:) !! قمة السفه و العجز حقيقة
...
حتى لما تذكر الجنة و قرر يكتب عنها نظر لها نظرة مادية بحتة ، على انها مكان الحور ! و ماقدرش يتصور قيمتها الروحية و قارن مابينها و مابين الدنيا مقارنة ظالمة مجحفة بالتالى ، انتصر فيها للدنيا و لفلسفته المادية و قال :
و انا ببساطة باؤمن بالروح و بالبعث :) و بعدالة الله .. و بحريتنا اللى وهبها لنا عز و جل في الاختيار ، و بالتالي اللي كاتبه دا بالنسبة لى محض هراء ، و ان كنت اعطيته نجمة اخرى وكنت بافكر ازودها بنجمة تالته كمان .. فدا كان على أبيات قليلة عجبتني في ديوانه .. نقلت بعضها هنا في اقتباسات
(و اعجبتنى بناء على تأويلي و نيتي انا و ليس نيته او تأويله لها !)
.. فالشعر هو احاسيس و مشاعر اللي بيكتبه .. بيحصل انها بتتوافق مع وجهة نظر اللي بيقرأ او مع مشاعره و احاسيسه زي لو واحد كتب عن الحب او الخيانة و اللي بيقرأ بيعيش حالة حب مع انسان او مع الخالق عز و جل ..
او بيعاني من آثار خيانة
كلها مشاعر انسانية بنتشاركها كلنا .. عموما .. ربنا بيهب بعضنا موهبة التعبير عنها شعرا او تمثيلا او غناء .. الخ ، و اللى بيكتب عن الحب او الزمن او الوفاء بيكتب عن معناهم المجرد و بالتالى كل واحد بيخصص المعنى المجرد دا و بيأوله بناء على حالته الشخصية و افكاره حتى و ان كانوا لايتفقوا مع ماقصده الشاعر ...
(دا تق��يب�� كان ملخص لمحاضرة حضرتها عن الشعر لدكتور موش فاكرة اسمه في جامعة حلوان مع تعزيز برأيي الشخصي)
:)
*****
*****
هو يقصد بحقيقة الدهر عقيدته الدهرية اللي خلاص بقت حقيقة بالنسبة له :) .. لكنى أولت البيت على هوايا :) و عقيدتي .. فعجبني
*****
*****
يقصد ينظر على المؤمنين بالحساب و يقولهم ان ربنا مابيحاسبش (زي البشر اللي بيحاسبوا بعضهم و الا فما الفرق بين ربنا عز و جل و بينهم) .. لكنه نسي ان ربنا عادل ومن اسمائه العدل و ان محاسبته هي تطبيق للعدل ..لكنه غنى عن حسابنا طبعا (كان دكتور مصطفى محمود الله يرحمه اتكلم عن الموضوع دا باستفاضة اكتر فى كتبه ) .. و ان كان البيت من الابيات اللي عجبتني فدا لأني أولته على عقيدتي ايضا .. على رحمة ربنا
:)
*****
*****
الشيطان عندهم ارقى و افضل من الانسان .. ماديين لأقصى حد .. و الخمر و النساء و الأموال و اللذة القريبة .. هي مقدساتهم اللى بيهيموا بيها ..
و ( عصفور في اليد خير من عشرة على الشجرة) .. حكمتهم الأثيرة اللي بتعبر عن تفكير ضحل ومادي .. حيواني .. و سفيه للغاية ! ..، يعني لذة قريبة من خمر او زنا افضل لهم من متعة روحية في الدنيا مع وعد بها و اضعاف مثلها في الآخرة ايضا
و مع ذلك استشعرت تردده تجاه عقيدته تلك من حين لآخر اثناء قرائتي لأشعاره .. و كأنه حاسس ان فلسفته و عقيدته باطلة و ان ضعفه امام الخمر ، و هواه هو ما حذى به الى الميل لها .. فكان من وقت لآخر بيطلب المغفره من ربنا و يستعطفه بغناه عز و جل عن حسابه .. و بيقر بذنبه و بضعفه امام الخمر .. الا انه بعد كل دعاء مثل هذا ، كان بيعود لمثل قوله و اكثر عن البعث و الحساب بأنهم خرافة و لتغزله في الخمر و هيامه بها .. !!
و في النهاية لما استسلم لنفسه و لاهوائه قاطبة بقى (يخبط) و يفلسف لنفسه زيادة و يلطش هنا شويه و هنا شويه :) و يجيب من هنا و من هناك ! .. ، يتكلم عن الجبرية و عن ان ��بنا خلقه كده و ارادله كده شويه ..
...
و يقول ان ربنا خلق المفاتن دي كلها عشان نستمتع بيها و يتساءل اومال هو خلقها ليه ؟؟ شويه
، و موش واصل له ان هو دا اختبارنا و امتحاننا و ان المطلوب مننا نصمد امام الفتن دي و نلجم انفسنا و نعلي ارواحنا و نسلمها الذمام ..
...
و شوية يلوم على ربنا عز و جل بعبثية و يصفه بالظالم
...
و بعدين يرجع للدهرية تاني
.....
المهم يبرر لنفسه و خلاص :) مكابرة منه و عند ، رغم ان الموضوع بسيط
!
و كأي سفيه .. بيخطأ و بدل مايحاول يقوم نفسه و يحاسب نفسه .. و يتحكم في نفسه .. بيهرب من دا بأنه يحاول يجر الناس كلها و يتهمهم باللي فيه ! .. و كل شوية يتهم الناس بالرياء ! .. الصائمين مراءين ، و القائمين مراءين ، و الذاكرين مراءين !! قمة السفه و انت كنت دخلت جوا قلوبهم ؟! :) .. طب و لو قاصد تشتم منهم الصائمين و القائمين و الذاكرين .. المراءين فقط .. موش دا معناه ان فيه آخرين غير مراءين مابتشغلش نفسك بيهم ليه طيب .. مابتتكلمش عنهم ليه دول .. و تحاول تفكر هما ليه صادقين و موش مراءين .. و لا خلاص كل الناس يا اما مراءين يا اما بلهاء .. ،
و حضرتك (يا اللي موش عارف تتحكم في نفسك و تسيب الخمر اللى مخلي عقلك فى اجازة و بتهرب بيها من التفكير اصلا) اللي حكمت بدا !!!؟
:) !! قمة السفه و العجز حقيقة
...
حتى لما تذكر الجنة و قرر يكتب عنها نظر لها نظرة مادية بحتة ، على انها مكان الحور ! و ماقدرش يتصور قيمتها الروحية و قارن مابينها و مابين الدنيا مقارنة ظالمة مجحفة بالتالى ، انتصر فيها للدنيا و لفلسفته المادية و قال :
قال قوم أطيب الحور في الجن
ة قلت المدام عندي أطيب
فاغنم النقد و اترك الدين و اعلم أن
صوت الطبول في البعد اعذب
و انا ببساطة باؤمن بالروح و بالبعث :) و بعدالة الله .. و بحريتنا اللى وهبها لنا عز و جل في الاختيار ، و بالتالي اللي كاتبه دا بالنسبة لى محض هراء ، و ان كنت اعطيته نجمة اخرى وكنت بافكر ازودها بنجمة تالته كمان .. فدا كان على أبيات قليلة عجبتني في ديوانه .. نقلت بعضها هنا في اقتباسات
(و اعجبتنى بناء على تأويلي و نيتي انا و ليس نيته او تأويله لها !)
.. فالشعر هو احاسيس و مشاعر اللي بيكتبه .. بيحصل انها بتتوافق مع وجهة نظر اللي بيقرأ او مع مشاعره و احاسيسه زي لو واحد كتب عن الحب او الخيانة و اللي بيقرأ بيعيش حالة حب مع انسان او مع الخالق عز و جل ..
او بيعاني من آثار خيانة
كلها مشاعر انسانية بنتشاركها كلنا .. عموما .. ربنا بيهب بعضنا موهبة التعبير عنها شعرا او تمثيلا او غناء .. الخ ، و اللى بيكتب عن الحب او الزمن او الوفاء بيكتب عن معناهم المجرد و بالتالى كل واحد بيخصص المعنى المجرد دا و بيأوله بناء على حالته الشخصية و افكاره حتى و ان كانوا لايتفقوا مع ماقصده الشاعر ...
(دا تق��يب�� كان ملخص لمحاضرة حضرتها عن الشعر لدكتور موش فاكرة اسمه في جامعة حلوان مع تعزيز برأيي الشخصي)
:)
*****
كل ذرات هذه الأرض كانت
أوجهها كالشموس ذات بهاء
*****
من تحرى حقيقة الدهر أضحى
عنده الحزن و السرور سواء
هو يقصد بحقيقة الدهر عقيدته الدهرية اللي خلاص بقت حقيقة بالنسبة له :) .. لكنى أولت البيت على هوايا :) و عقيدتي .. فعجبني
*****
لا تنظرن إلى الفتى و فنونه
و انظر لحفظ عهوده و وفائه
فإذا رأيت المرء قام بعهده
فاحسبه فاق الكل في عليائه
*****
إلهي قل لي من خلى من خطيئةوكيف ترى عاش البرئ من الذنب
إذا كنت تجري الذنب مني بمثله
فما الفرق مابيني و بينك ياربي
يقصد ينظر على المؤمنين بالحساب و يقولهم ان ربنا مابيحاسبش (زي البشر اللي بيحاسبوا بعضهم و الا فما الفرق بين ربنا عز و جل و بينهم) .. لكنه نسي ان ربنا عادل ومن اسمائه العدل و ان محاسبته هي تطبيق للعدل ..لكنه غنى عن حسابنا طبعا (كان دكتور مصطفى محمود الله يرحمه اتكلم عن الموضوع دا باستفاضة اكتر فى كتبه ) .. و ان كان البيت من الابيات اللي عجبتني فدا لأني أولته على عقيدتي ايضا .. على رحمة ربنا
:)
*****
لئن جالست من تهواه عمراو ذقت لذات الوجود
فسوف تفارق الدنيا كأن
الذي شاهدت حلم في هجود
*****
لئن عمرت صاحي ألف حول
فسوف تعاف هذي الدار قهرا
April 10, 2021
A big civilization is going to be extinct if they no longer use their own language for writing in Arabic had been highly suggested!...
Now it's high time that an autonomous Persian government is established to revitalise the fading culture of the past. In Rubaiyat, there's a high sense of nostalgia towards old Persian settings with all its mythological kings as Jamshid and Keikhosru. Compared to his contemporaries creating hypocritical literature; he unveils the truth. The sorry state is that in his contemporary poets you'll find worthless eulogies miserably written in praise of authorities whereas Omar Khayyam is a daring man who depicts a real mistress, he talks about being and time, a lost identity where he questions death, doomsday, and orthodox Muslims. He is certainly the odd one out! ,...It's clear that the mistress of Rubaiyat is a real woman and not an imaginary character or probably a man as it was very common at that very time. Mysticism for centuries has suggested a range of vocabulary which is repetitive, addictive, and cliche whereas the choice of vocabulary in Khayyam is vigorous and real. His question of death is the most common question of the human being through time and death and rebirth archetype is the main theme of Rubaiyat.
That's a pity that he lived anonymously as a poet although his work has been recognised and always celebrated after his death.
Now it's high time that an autonomous Persian government is established to revitalise the fading culture of the past. In Rubaiyat, there's a high sense of nostalgia towards old Persian settings with all its mythological kings as Jamshid and Keikhosru. Compared to his contemporaries creating hypocritical literature; he unveils the truth. The sorry state is that in his contemporary poets you'll find worthless eulogies miserably written in praise of authorities whereas Omar Khayyam is a daring man who depicts a real mistress, he talks about being and time, a lost identity where he questions death, doomsday, and orthodox Muslims. He is certainly the odd one out! ,...It's clear that the mistress of Rubaiyat is a real woman and not an imaginary character or probably a man as it was very common at that very time. Mysticism for centuries has suggested a range of vocabulary which is repetitive, addictive, and cliche whereas the choice of vocabulary in Khayyam is vigorous and real. His question of death is the most common question of the human being through time and death and rebirth archetype is the main theme of Rubaiyat.
That's a pity that he lived anonymously as a poet although his work has been recognised and always celebrated after his death.
June 5, 2020
This book was owned by my late uncle, passed on to my late brother and passed on to me. Published in 1900, it is a treasure in our family and I have read it too many times to count. But that was before I became a GR member....so it will show up as my first read. I picked it up yesterday and read it one more time and reacted to it as I did the first time. Fascinated and amazed. It is such a joy.
July 3, 2014
اللهم إني عرفتك على مبلع إمكاني فاغفر لي ، فإن معرفتي إياك وسيلتي إليك
December 25, 2015
If you were ever to compile the different odes to alcohol (there are likely to be very many in different languages and dialects, recited in different stages of inebriation), then this would have to rank right at the very top. The beauty and wonder with which Omar Khayyam has constructed his poem is a joy to behold. The comparisons stun you, for you'd have never seen it that way before. You almost get the feeling that you're sitting in one of those taverns in Arabia, that we so often see in movies and cartoons, and every gust of wind brings in a little sand and a bit of Khayyam's poetry with it.
I can only imagine how must it feel to read this poem in its original form, which I hope to do some day, if even the translation is able to sweep you off your feet.
For instance, this:
The Grape(wine) that can with Logic
absolute
The Two-and-Seventy jarring Sects
confute :
The subtle Alchemist that in a
Trice
Life's leaden Metal into Gold transmute.
Wow, just fucking wow. I feel a little guilty of trivializing a poem of this stature which has so many layers of meaning, stacked one on top of the other, into an ode to drinking. But then the sense you get from the many metaphysical meanings of this poem is to be drunk on life, or atleast go about with a sense of wonder and that stupid smile that is so often a characteristic of drunkards. For,
Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai
Whose Doorways are alternate Night
and Day,
How Sultan after Sultan with his
Pomp
Abode his Hour or two, and went
his way.
I can only imagine how must it feel to read this poem in its original form, which I hope to do some day, if even the translation is able to sweep you off your feet.
For instance, this:
The Grape(wine) that can with Logic
absolute
The Two-and-Seventy jarring Sects
confute :
The subtle Alchemist that in a
Trice
Life's leaden Metal into Gold transmute.
Wow, just fucking wow. I feel a little guilty of trivializing a poem of this stature which has so many layers of meaning, stacked one on top of the other, into an ode to drinking. But then the sense you get from the many metaphysical meanings of this poem is to be drunk on life, or atleast go about with a sense of wonder and that stupid smile that is so often a characteristic of drunkards. For,
Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai
Whose Doorways are alternate Night
and Day,
How Sultan after Sultan with his
Pomp
Abode his Hour or two, and went
his way.
August 14, 2021
أحسن إلى الأعداء والأصدقاء
فإنَّما أُنس القلوب الصفَاء
واغفر لأصحابكَ زلاّتهم
وسامح الأعداء تَمْحُ العِداء
وأسعدْ الخلقْ قليل الفضول
مَن يهجر الناس ويرضى القليل
كأنهُ عنقاءَ عندَ السّهى
لا بومةٌ تنعبُ بينَ الطلول
يامَن يَحارُ الفَهمُ في قدرتك
وتطلبُ النَفسُ حمى طاعتك
أسكرَني الإثمُ ولكنّني
صحوَت بالآمال في رحمتك
إن لم أكنْ أخلصتُ في طاعتك
فإنّني أطمعُ في رحمتك
وإنَّما يشفعُ لي أنّني
قَد عشتُ لا أُشرك في وحدتك
اللهُ يدري كلُّ ما تُضمر
يعلمُ ما تُخفي وما تُظهر
وإن خدعتَ الناس لم تستطع
خدِاع مَن يطوي ومَن يَنشر
أنا الَّذي أبدعت مِن قدرتك
فعشتُ أرعى في حمى نعمتك
دعني إلى الآثام حتى أرى
كيفَ يذوب الإثمُ في رحمتك
تُخفي عن الناس سنَا طلعتك
وكلُّ مافي الكون مِن صنعتك
فأنتَ مجلاهُ وأنتَ الَّذي
تَرى بديع الصُنع في آيتك
فإنَّما أُنس القلوب الصفَاء
واغفر لأصحابكَ زلاّتهم
وسامح الأعداء تَمْحُ العِداء
وأسعدْ الخلقْ قليل الفضول
مَن يهجر الناس ويرضى القليل
كأنهُ عنقاءَ عندَ السّهى
لا بومةٌ تنعبُ بينَ الطلول
يامَن يَحارُ الفَهمُ في قدرتك
وتطلبُ النَفسُ حمى طاعتك
أسكرَني الإثمُ ولكنّني
صحوَت بالآمال في رحمتك
إن لم أكنْ أخلصتُ في طاعتك
فإنّني أطمعُ في رحمتك
وإنَّما يشفعُ لي أنّني
قَد عشتُ لا أُشرك في وحدتك
اللهُ يدري كلُّ ما تُضمر
يعلمُ ما تُخفي وما تُظهر
وإن خدعتَ الناس لم تستطع
خدِاع مَن يطوي ومَن يَنشر
أنا الَّذي أبدعت مِن قدرتك
فعشتُ أرعى في حمى نعمتك
دعني إلى الآثام حتى أرى
كيفَ يذوب الإثمُ في رحمتك
تُخفي عن الناس سنَا طلعتك
وكلُّ مافي الكون مِن صنعتك
فأنتَ مجلاهُ وأنتَ الَّذي
تَرى بديع الصُنع في آيتك
April 18, 2020
مجموعة انتقاها أحمد رامي بدراسة مدققة معتنية وبحدس شاعر من رباعيات عمر الخيام. تلك الروح الكبيرة التي لم يبق من آثارها سوى سطور بثها حيرته وغربته. ترجم رامي الرباعيات عن الفارسية مباشرة إلى العربية شعرا. وقد صدر عن هذا الكتاب أكثر من خمس وعشرين طبعة أولها في القاهرة في صيف عام 1924.
أحمد الديب
يناير 2010
تحديث: قراءة أخرى بعد أكثر من عشر سنين، استعدادًا لإدارة نقاش حول الكتاب في نادي كتاب مكتبة الإسكندرية، في جلسة خاصة على الإنترنت عبر تطبيق زووم اليوم الأحد 12 أبريل الساعة 8 مساءً، وهذا رابط الحدث:
https://www.facebook.com/events/21245...
وهذا تسجيل بالفيديو للمناقشة:
https://youtu.be/b5XnNNT5s1s
أبريل 2020
أحمد الديب
يناير 2010
تحديث: قراءة أخرى بعد أكثر من عشر سنين، استعدادًا لإدارة نقاش حول الكتاب في نادي كتاب مكتبة الإسكندرية، في جلسة خاصة على الإنترنت عبر تطبيق زووم اليوم الأحد 12 أبريل الساعة 8 مساءً، وهذا رابط الحدث:
https://www.facebook.com/events/21245...
وهذا تسجيل بالفيديو للمناقشة:
https://youtu.be/b5XnNNT5s1s
أبريل 2020
January 25, 2016
خیام را خیلی دوست دارم، اولین آشنایی من با خیام از راه استاد هژار (مترجم رباعیات خیام به کردی) بود، واقعا طوری ترجمه اش کرده که حس میکنی خیام به زبان کردی رباعیاتش را سروده است! بعدا شروع کردم که رباعیات را به فارسی بخوانم و هنوزم میخوانمشون چون واقعا بینظیرن.
یه بار در روز خیام را با خواندن یک از رباعیاتش در ویژه برنامه خیام در رادیوپل اشتراک کردم
،این بود:
بنگر ز جهان چه طرف بر بستم ؟ هیچ
وز حاصل عمر چیست در دستم ؟ هیچ
شـمع طـربم ولی چـو بنـشستم هیچ
من جام جمم ولی چو بشکستم هیچ
May 25, 2018
حين نقول رباعيات الخيام ، فإننا عن جمال الشعر الفارسي نتحدث ...
عن الحكمة و مناجاة الله ، عن تساؤلات النفس و التفكر بالقدر ، عن أهواء القلب و زهد الدنيا ... و الكثير .
جميلة ككل ، تجمع بين سلاسة الكلام و متانة التعبير .
يا عالم الأسرار علم اليقين
يا كاشف الضر عن البائسين
يا قابل الأعذار فئنا إلى
ظلّك فاقبل توبة التائبين
*
أفنيتُ عمري في ارتقابِ المُنى
و لم أذق في العيش طعم الهنا
و إنَّني أُشفق أن ينقضي
عمري و ما فارقت هذا العَنا
*
عاشر من الناس كبار العقول
و جانب الجهال أهل الفضول
و اشرب نقيع السمّ من عاقلٍ
و اسكب على الأرض دواء الجهول
عن الحكمة و مناجاة الله ، عن تساؤلات النفس و التفكر بالقدر ، عن أهواء القلب و زهد الدنيا ... و الكثير .
جميلة ككل ، تجمع بين سلاسة الكلام و متانة التعبير .
يا عالم الأسرار علم اليقين
يا كاشف الضر عن البائسين
يا قابل الأعذار فئنا إلى
ظلّك فاقبل توبة التائبين
*
أفنيتُ عمري في ارتقابِ المُنى
و لم أذق في العيش طعم الهنا
و إنَّني أُشفق أن ينقضي
عمري و ما فارقت هذا العَنا
*
عاشر من الناس كبار العقول
و جانب الجهال أهل الفضول
و اشرب نقيع السمّ من عاقلٍ
و اسكب على الأرض دواء الجهول
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