Turn on thread page Beta
    • Thread Starter
    Offline

    0
    ReputationRep:
    I'll start with the Sufi Persian poet Rumi.

    "Come, come, whoever you are.

    Wonderer, worshipper, lover of leaving.

    It doesn't matter.

    Ours is not a caravan of despair.

    Come, even if you have broken your vow

    a thousand times

    Come, yet again, come, come."

    It's absoloutly beautiful.
    Offline

    20
    ReputationRep:
    Mine's Tulips:

    Spoiler:
    Show
    The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here.Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in.
    I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly
    As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands.
    I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions.
    I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses
    And my history to the anesthetist and my body to surgeons.

    They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff
    Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut.
    Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in.
    The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble,
    They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps,
    Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another,
    So it is impossible to tell how many there are.

    My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water
    Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently.
    They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep.
    Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage——
    My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox,
    My husband and child smiling out of the family photo;
    Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks.

    I have let things slip, a thirty-year-old cargo boat
    stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.
    They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations.
    Scared and bare on the green plastic-pillowed trolley
    I watched my teaset, my bureaus of linen, my books
    Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head.
    I am a nun now, I have never been so pure.

    I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted
    To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.
    How free it is, you have no idea how free——
    The peacefulness is so big it dazes you,
    And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets.
    It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them
    Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.

    The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me.
    Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe
    Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby.
    Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds.
    They are subtle : they seem to float, though they weigh me down,
    Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their color,
    A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck.

    Nobody watched me before, now I am watched.
    The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me
    Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins,
    And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow
    Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips,
    And I have no face, I have wanted to efface myself.
    The vivid tulips eat my oxygen.

    Before they came the air was calm enough,
    Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss.
    Then the tulips filled it up like a loud noise.
    Now the air snags and eddies round them the way a river
    Snags and eddies round a sunken rust-red engine.
    They concentrate my attention, that was happy
    Playing and resting without committing itself.

    The walls, also, seem to be warming themselves.
    The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals;
    They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat,
    And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes
    Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.
    The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea,
    And comes from a country far away as health.
    Offline

    9
    ReputationRep:
    If - Rudyard Kipling
    Offline

    18
    ReputationRep:
    Rumi's poems are amazing. I think it was when I was on the verge of leaving Islam that I read one particular poem by Rumi which succinctly outlined my own ideas on the religion (ideas that so many Muslims I knew/know frowned upon and didn't agree with me believing them) and it made me realise that my ideas/beliefs weren't bad at all. That gave me the final push to leave and declare myself a non-Muslim.

    My own favourites come from Yeats. The Second Coming and Leda and The Swan are brilliant!
    • Thread Starter
    Offline

    0
    ReputationRep:
    (Original post by arrogant)
    If - Rudyard Kipling
    Absoloutly love If, especially the last few lines;

    If you can fill the unforgiving minute
    With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
    Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
    And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!
    • Thread Starter
    Offline

    0
    ReputationRep:
    (Original post by Vixen47)
    Rumi's poems are amazing. I think it was when I was on the verge of leaving Islam that I read one particular poem by Rumi which succinctly outlined my own ideas on the religion (ideas that so many Muslims I knew/know frowned upon and didn't agree with me believing them) and it made me realise that my ideas/beliefs weren't bad at all. That gave me the final push to leave and declare myself a non-Muslim.

    My own favourites come from Yeats. The Second Coming and Leda and The Swan are brilliant!
    You're right aha; his poems are absoloutly beautiful. I honestly believe that they transgress all languages and cultures and just connect to your heart; I mean this poem..

    When you see the lovers
    don't pass them by,
    sit with them.
    The fire of love warms the world,
    but even fire dies
    in the company of ashes.

    It's just beautiful :')

    I love Yeats, especially his "A Crazed Girl"
    Offline

    19
    ReputationRep:
    The Hollow Men - T.S. Eliot
    Offline

    6
    ReputationRep:
    (Original post by stuffsgrooveyman)
    I'll start with the Sufi Persian poet Rumi.

    "Come, come, whoever you are.

    Wonderer, worshipper, lover of leaving.

    It doesn't matter.

    Ours is not a caravan of despair.

    Come, even if you have broken your vow

    a thousand times

    Come, yet again, come, come."

    It's absoloutly beautiful.
    This is a common mistake. This is not from him.
    • Thread Starter
    Offline

    0
    ReputationRep:
    (Original post by sbj)
    This is a common mistake. This is not from him.
    Is it not? It's in the introduction to one of his poetry books :confused:
    Offline

    11
    ReputationRep:
    Ulysses- Alfred, Lord Tennyson. But, If by Kipling is a very close second.
    Offline

    13
    ReputationRep:
    Probably I Wanna Be Yours by John Cooper Clarke.
    Either that or Eat Your Words by Benjamin Zephaniah.
    Honourable mention for Defying Gravity by Roger McGough.
    Offline

    6
    ReputationRep:
    (Original post by stuffsgrooveyman)
    Is it not? It's in the introduction to one of his poetry books :confused:
    As I said, it is a common mistake.

    This is absolutely not from him. His divan in Turkey does not contain this poem. It is from someone who lived 150 years earlier, also a sufi.

    But populist books and facebook quotes made this up.

    But don't worry, Rumi has got more powerful poems than this. There is nobody like him, not even in western society.
    • Thread Starter
    Offline

    0
    ReputationRep:
    (Original post by sbj)
    As I said, it is a common mistake.

    This is absolutely not from him. His divan in Turkey does not contain this poem. It is from someone who lived 150 years earlier, also a sufi.

    But populist books and facebook quotes made this up.

    But don't worry, Rumi has got more powerful poems than this. There is nobody like him, not even in western society.
    Aha, thanks for the clear up :')!
    Sufi poetry is beautiful tbh.

    Tbhf though, I don't have just one favourite Rumi poet, I mean I absoloutly love these ones;

    Don't go anywhere without me.
    Let nothing happen in the sky apart from me,
    or on the ground, in this world or that world,
    without my being in its happening.
    Vision, see nothing I don't see.
    Language, say nothing.
    The way the night knows itself with the moon,
    be that with me. Be the rose
    nearest to the thorn that I am.

    I want to feel myself in you when you taste food,
    in the arc of your mallet when you work,
    when you visit friends, when you go
    up on the roof by yourself at night.

    There's nothing worse than to walk out along the street
    without you. I don't know where I'm going.
    You're the road, and the knower of roads,
    more than maps, more than love.

    Especially the second stanza in that, it does something to me.

    ~~~~~

    Not Christian or Jew or Muslim, not Hindu,
    Buddhist, sufi, or zen. Not any religion

    or cultural system. I am not from the East
    or the West, not out of the ocean or up

    from the ground, not natural or ethereal, not
    composed of elements at all. I do not exist,

    am not an entity in this world or the next,
    did not descend from Adam and Eve or any

    origin story. My place is placeless, a trace
    of the traceless. Neither body or soul.

    I belong to the beloved, have seen the two
    worlds as one and that one call to and know,

    first, last, outer, inner, only that
    breath breathing human being.

    ~~~~~

    No end to the journey
    No end, no end to the journey
    no end, no end never
    how can the heart in love ever stop opening
    if you love me, you won’t just die once
    in every moment you will die into me
    to be reborn
    Into this new love die
    your way begins on the other side
    become the sky
    take an axe to the prison wall,
    escape
    walk out like someone
    suddenly born into colour
    do it now

    ~~~~~~

    The minute I heard my first love story,
    I started looking for you, not knowing
    how blind that was.

    Lovers don't finally meet somewhere,
    they're in each other all along.

    ~~~~~~

    I need a mouth as wide as the sky
    to say the nature of a True Person, language
    as large as longing.

    The fragile vial inside me often breaks.
    No wonder I go mad and disappear for three days
    every month with the moon

    For anyone in love with you,
    it's always these invisible days.

    I've lost the thread of the story I was telling.
    My elephant roams his dream of Hindustan again.
    Narrative, poetics, destroyed, my body,
    a dissolving, a return.

    Friend, I've shrunk to a hair trying to say your story.
    Would you tell mine?
    I've made up so many love stories.
    Now I feel fictional.
    Tell me!
    The truth is, you are speaking, not me.
    I am Sinai, and you are Moses walking there.
    This poetry is an echo of what you say.
    A piece of land can't speak, or know anything!
    Or if it can, only within limits.

    The body is a device to calculate
    the astronomy of the spirit.
    Look through that astrolabe
    and become oceanic.

    Why this distracted talk?
    It's not my fault I rave.
    You did this.
    Do you approve of my love-madness?

    Say yes.
    What language will you say it in, Arabic or Persian,
    or what? Once again, I must be tied up.

    Bring the curly ropes of your hair.
    Now I remember the story.
    A True Man stares at his old shoes
    and sheepskin jacket. Every day he goes up
    to his attic to look at his work-shoes and worn-out coat.
    This is his wisdom, to remember the original clay
    and not get drunk with ego and arrogance.

    To visit those shoes and jacket
    is praise.

    THe Absolute works with nothing.
    The workshop, the materials
    are what does not exist.

    Try and be a sheet of paper with nothing on it.
    Be a spot of land where nothing is growing,
    where something might be planted,
    a seed, possibly, from the Absolute.


    All of his poetry showcases so much feeling, so much longing, so many emotions. I can never grow tired of his work.
    Offline

    0
    ReputationRep:
    Bear's poems. :giggle:
    Offline

    3
    ReputationRep:
    I don't like poetry tbh
    Offline

    14
    ReputationRep:
    Rumi's poems and the Mathnawi are like wow

    When recited it's pure ectasy I wish I could understand what's its saying without looking at the ****ing English translation

    With English my favourite poem is la belle dame sans merci

    Posted from TSR Mobile
    Offline

    15
    ReputationRep:
    Mine is by Robert Frost called Fire and Ice (I think).

    It goes like this:
    Some say the world will end in fire,
    Some say in ice.
    From what I’ve tasted of desire
    I hold with those who favor fire.
    But if it had to perish twice,
    I think I know enough of hate
    To say that for destruction ice
    Is also great
    And would suffice.


    Posted from TSR Mobile
    Offline

    0
    ReputationRep:
    The Ballad of Reading Gaol - Oscar Wilde

    AND

    Badly Chosen Lover - Rosemary Tonks
    Offline

    6
    ReputationRep:
    (Original post by stuffsgrooveyman)
    Aha, thanks for the clear up :')!
    Sufi poetry is beautiful tbh.

    Tbhf though, I don't have just one favourite Rumi poet, I mean I absoloutly love these ones;

    All of his poetry showcases so much feeling, so much longing, so many emotions. I can never grow tired of his work.
    Well, reading the English translations you can not catch the deepness of Turkish/Arabic/Persian/Hindu poetry.
    The poetry of this part of the world is filled with longing and pureness, you can not translate this into English.
    If you are able to do, I suggest you to try out the original works of the poets.
    For example if you can read Persian, this would be awesome, which I can not, because you could read the creme de la creme without any additions. Trust me, no rhymes and no touching word games are not equal to the originals.
    Offline

    13
    ReputationRep:
    Probably a bit cliche, but I really love 'how do I love thee' by Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

    Generally though I'm a huge Sylvia Plath fan!
 
 
 
Reply
Submit reply
Turn on thread page Beta
TSR Support Team

We have a brilliant team of more than 60 Support Team members looking after discussions on The Student Room, helping to make it a fun, safe and useful place to hang out.

Updated: March 18, 2014
Poll
Black Friday: Yay or Nay?
Useful resources
AtCTs

Ask the Community Team

Got a question about the site content or our moderation? Ask here.

Welcome Lounge

Welcome Lounge

We're a friendly bunch. Post here if you're new to TSR.

Groups associated with this forum:

View associated groups

The Student Room, Get Revising and Marked by Teachers are trading names of The Student Room Group Ltd.

Register Number: 04666380 (England and Wales), VAT No. 806 8067 22 Registered Office: International House, Queens Road, Brighton, BN1 3XE

Write a reply...
Reply
Hide
Reputation gems: You get these gems as you gain rep from other members for making good contributions and giving helpful advice.