Crying is not the time, but the time to say goodbye.
Quietly say, smiling: "Goodbye!"
No return, no former happiness
you don't promise me out of pity.
Will invocative speeches help,
if the soul does not answer the call?
Our farewell is more reliable than a meeting,
Our silence is truer than words.
Mournful music, dreary song
to see off Don't stand on the threshold.
Soon you will be happy again.
Is it worth it to cry, saying goodbye to me?
Kazi Nazrul Islam (Beng.) (1899-1976)
- Bengali poet, musician, philosopher.
The lover is blind. But passion is a visible trace
He leads him where there is no way for the sighted.
Outside of passion, we cannot find consolation,
There is only bile and darkness of black troubles.
With a dirty floor they do not go to love.
Lovers have many signs.
Through madness goes their way.
And there is no place for imitators.
After all, when you love and are loved,
You gain light of both worlds.
Leave the dungeon of the word "I" as soon as possible,
You will say: "We" - and the dawn will bloom.
Beautiful rest on your way
But you will also taste the bitter color of torment.
Be righteous, if you can, Nizami.
For the heart, a torch is the light of righteousness.
Ganjavi. (1141–presumed 1204)
- Azerbaijani poet, thinker.
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Beware of inflicting wounds
The soul that keeps and loves you.
She hurts a lot more.
And, having forgiven everything, he will understand and not condemn.
Taking all the pain and bitterness from you,
Will resignedly remain in torment.
You will not hear insolence in words.
You will not see the evil tear of sparkling.
Beware of inflicting wounds
To those who will not answer with brute force.
And who can't heal the scars.
Who will dutifully meet your blow.
Beware of cruel wounds yourself,
that inflicts on your soul
The one who keeps you as a talisman,
But whoever in his soul does not carry you.
We are so cruel to those who are vulnerable.
Helpless for those we love.
We keep traces of countless wounds,
Which we will forgive ... but we will not forget !!!
Omar Khayyam
Rudaki ran his hand along the strings,
He sang about a dear friend.
The ruby of wine is a molten ruby.
But a ruby is similar to lips.
One fundamental principle was given to them:
One hardened, the other melted.
Barely touched - burned his hand,
Barely sipped - lost his peace.
Rudaki (around 860),
father of Persian poetry
Translation by S. Lipkin
I went to the sage and asked him:
"What is love? He said "Nothing"
But I know a lot of books have been written:
Eternity is written by some, while others - as a moment ...
It will scorch with fire, then it will melt like snow,
What is love? "It's all man!"
And then I looked him straight in the face,
How can I understand you? "Nothing or everything?"
He said with a smile: "You yourself gave the answer!:
"Nothing or everything!" - there is no middle ground here!
Omar Khayyam
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Omar Khayyam
Where are these people, the wisest of our land, now?
They did not find a secret thread at the heart of creation.
How much they talked about the essence of God, -
They shook their beards all their lives - and left without a trace.
The chosen one, by whom the path of knowledge began,
Who jumps thoughts in the sky on Burak,
He drooped his head, knowing his essence,
Like the sky - and crying in confusion.
All who are old and who are young, who now live,
One by one they will be led into the darkness.
Life is not given forever. How they left before us
We will leave; and for us - they will come and go.
Even the brightest minds in the world
Could not disperse the surrounding darkness.
Told us some bedtime stories
And went, wise, to sleep, like us.
For a moment, a moment - and life will flash by ...
Let this moment sparkle with fun!
Beware, for life is the essence of creation,
As you spend it, so it will pass.
Vidyapati
As long as I stand before you
you swear that it was given to you by fate,
and I’m leaving - you won’t even look after ...
I mistook your false brilliance for light.
But a veil fell from my eyes,
and now I can see your soul.
I see: there is not a penny of truth in it.
Your love is words, and vows are lies.
Oh how you laugh at me evilly
when you say that you are faithful to me alone!
That's enough! Arrows pierce my chest
carrying honey and poison at the same time.
Classical oriental poetry
He is the husband of another beauty,
and you are the wife of another,
And I - two banks, like a bridge,
ready to connect.
I put all my strength
for the meeting to take place
Now, oh my lotus, destiny
left to trust.
Preparing for a secret meeting with him,
decorate yourself well
And remember: hesitation, fear
we are inevitably destroyed.
Go with hope, because you
I handed over the right key, -
There is no one who would not want
well-being!
At the hour of the first merger, the first caresses
God Kamadeva is hungry and greedy, -
Be restrained - do not crush in a hurry
the sweetest of wonderful grapes.
Do not be greedy, having mastered the bashful,
subdue your tormenting flame, -
The worthy better die of hunger,
than to eat with both hands.
O Krishna! Of course you are very wise
and should know no worse than others,
How scared the young elephant
smell the driver's rod for the first time.
She decided to meet you
only after much begging and exhortation,
So try to please my dear -
She will immediately become closer and more desirable.
Persistently do not force love,
only rude ignoramuses do that,
She is gentle - do not hurt her soul,
in a fit of passion, do not tear your clothes.
Enjoy with her only until then,
while your onslaught endures favorably,
But step back, as soon as you notice
that looks displeased, tired.
And don't grab your hands in a hurry,
seeing that she was ready to leave, -
So the demon Rahu, vomiting the moon,
she is not immediately swallowed again.
He is an incomparable lover, you are also full of fire,
Let the jasmine of love bloom more magnificent every day.
Merchants in the city gathered at the marketplace of love,
Set a higher price for them - and do not sell cheap.
Krishna himself is your buyer, and the deal is not bad,
Do not call him an ignoramus, mistaking him for a shepherd.
You will be at a loss, do not be angry: he is more glorious than glorious,
Among the shepherds he has sixteen thousand wives.
And do not be embarrassed that he is hundreds of times taller than you:
The god of love will spread a bed - and equalize you.
Decorate your hair first
and put a mark on your forehead,
And then lift your eyes
give them life.
Appear to him, to the very heels
wrapped in fabric
And to make him crave more,
Stand up a little further.
First, my soul, be ashamed -
just look askance
And flashes of evil eyes
awaken a flame in it.
Half your chest
so that part is visible
Take care that your camp is tighter
clothes fit.
Frown - but then for a moment
and show joy
Be restrained so that again and again
he was waiting for your love.
What good advice
do you need?..
God of love himself, let him be henceforth
your mentor!
Abu Abdullah Rudaki
Yes, that's right: our world is not fair to the sage.
Do not expect good things from the world, but be hardworking.
Take and give, then that one is happy
Who took and gave, having accumulated wealth.
My desired flower, thin-skinned idol,
Oh, where is your long-awaited drink drunk?
He breathes cool. You make me happy
The intoxicating joy of an unspeakable winter.
Things without knowing the true price,
Are you created by God for war?
Listen, owner of a short life,
Do you need battles?
For the right to look at her, I gave my heart on the cheap.
The kiss was not dear either: I handed my life over to the merchant.
However, if my cheat is destined to become a merchant,
Then a dexterous merchant will immediately take away my life for a kiss!
The beauty of resinous, curly curls
From crimson roses it seems more tender.
Each knot contains a thousand hearts,
In each curl - a thousand sorrows.
Classical Japanese poetry
Songs of Yamato! You grow from one seed - the heart, and expand into myriads of speech petals - into myriads of words.
The people who live in this world are entangled in a dense thicket of worldly affairs; and everything that lies in their hearts, they all express it in connection with what they hear and what they see.
Without any effort it moves heaven and earth; captivates even gods and demons invisible to our eyes; refines the union of men and women; softens the heart of stern warriors... Such is the song.
Ki no Tsurayuki
From the preface to the collection "Kokinshu"
Basho
Where are you, cuckoo?
Remember, the plums began to bloom,
Only spring died.
In a hut rebuilt after a fire
I hear the hailstones rattling.
I'm the only one who hasn't changed here
Like this old oak.
translator: V. Markova
Willow bowed and sleeps,
And it seems to me, a nightingale on a branch -
This is her soul
translator: V. Markova
Only the breeze dies -
Willow branch to branch
Butterfly flutters.
translator: V. Markova
How enviable is their fate!
North of the busy world
Cherry blossoms in the mountains.
translator: V. Markova
Are you also one of those
Who does not sleep is intoxicated with flowers,
About mice in the attic?
Rain in the mulberry grove rustles ...
On the ground barely moving
Sick silkworm.
Still on the edge of the skate
The sun is burning over the roof.
The evening is chilly.
Closed her mouth tightly
sea shell.
Unbearable heat!
translator: V. Markova
Chrysanthemums in the fields
They already say forget it
Hot Carnation Days!
Masaoka Shiki. Haiku
Masaoka Shiki (Shiki), 1867-1902
It was Shiki who introduced the term "haiku", there "officially" separating the art of single verses from the art of rengi (the latter was no longer as popular as in Basho's time). In haiku poetry, Shiki founded a new school (it is believed that he simply revived this genre, which also began to decline). Shiki proclaimed the principle of "objectivity" as fundamental: images for haiku should be taken from real life experience, and not from one's own imagination; the figure of the observer-poet himself, his judgments, personally invented epithets - all this, if possible, was now removed from the frame. It was Shiki who glorified Buson as a poet, opposing the "more objective" Buson the artist to the "subjective" Basho the monk. Shiki suffered from illnesses almost all his life, and for the last seven years he was chained to
bed. He died quite early, at the age of 35 (from tuberculosis), but he left behind a new school of haiku and a new school of tanka, which in general is not so little...
Killed the spider
And it got so lonely
In the cold of the night
mountain village -
From under the snowdrifts comes
The murmur of water
Mountains in spring
Looking from behind the other
From all sides
Pears in bloom...
And from home after the battle
Only ruins
iris flower
Almost withered -
spring twilight
Summer on the river
Near the bridge, but my horse
Wade
I peel a pear -
drops of sweet juice
Crawling on the edge of a knife
You're staying,
I'm leaving - two different
Autumn for us
Kobayashi Issa. Haiku
Kobayashi Issa, 1762-1826.
Issa, unlike Basho and Buson, came from a poor peasant family. He also traveled a lot, but in his life there was more suffering and struggle than contemplation. Life with a stepmother as a child, poverty, the death of two wives and several children - all this
strongly affected his poetry. Issa has many verses about the smallest and most insignificant creatures - flies, snails, lice. Nevertheless, in his poems about these "smaller brothers" there is not just pathetic pity, but sympathy and enthusiasm, turning into a call to protest against life's hardships and despair.
Snow melted -
And the whole village is full around
Noisy kids.
Ah, don't trample the grass!
There were fireflies
Yesterday at night.
Here comes the moon
And the smallest bush
Invited to the feast.
Oh with what sadness
The bird looks out of the cage
To the flight of the moth!
Our life is a dewdrop.
Let only a drop of dew
Our life is still...
Quietly creep,
Snail, down the slope of Fuji
Up to the very heights!
Buddha up!
The swallow flew out
From his nostrils.
Oh, don't hit the fly!
Her hands are shaking...
Her legs are trembling...
Oh what a shame I am
Listen while lying in the shade
Rice Planting Song!
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When it comes to Eastern poetry, Omar Khayyam's rubaiyat and Japanese haiku always come to mind first. But the storehouse of oriental poetry is inexhaustible. The East has always known and appreciated the beauty of the word. “The syllable oriental was a model for me…” A. S. Pushkin once wrote. Like Alexander Sergeevich, Eastern poets wrote a lot and fruitfully about the beauty of a woman.
Indian, Persian, Chinese poetry is beautiful and delightful, but the wise and multifaceted Japanese poetry was the creative basis for the intricate tie of Oriental poetry. Over the course of 12 centuries, two of the most famous genres of Japanese poetry were formed - three-line haiku and five-line tanka. In the tradition of Japanese lyric poetry, it is not customary to express feelings openly, they are transmitted through images of wildlife. It is also not customary to admire the external beauty of a woman - here, too, images of a butterfly, a flower, a precious stone are used.
Evening bindweed
I'm captured... Still
I am in oblivion.
And I want to live in autumn
To this butterfly: drinks hastily
Dew from the chrysanthemum.
Oh no ready
I can't find a comparison for you
Three day month!
Oh, how many of them are in the fields!
But everyone blooms in their own way -
This is the highest feat of a flower!
Basho
On the road where I'm going
On the slopes of the mountains
Quietly rustling bamboo ...
But apart from my dear wife
It's heavy on my heart...
The rustle of jasper clothes subsided,
Oh how sad I am
Without telling my beloved
What was left at home
A kind word, leaving ...
Kakinomo Hitomaro
Although this evening
I'm not expecting anyone
But my heart trembled
When stirred by the wind
Bamboo curtain.
Ozawa Roan
Seen everything in the world
My eyes - and returned
To you, white chrysanthemums.
Issho
Classical Sanskrit poetry was intended for recitation at court poetic tournaments, it was oriented towards a narrow circle of connoisseurs and lovers of virtuoso literature, and was subject to strict literary canons. Its main genres are love, nature, panegyric, fable, fairy tale. One of the fundamental points is the magic of the word (“dhvani”)
Jasmine stuck in the hair,
And the bliss of half-open lips,
And the body that is anointed
Sandalwood mixed with saffron
And the gentle hop of her chest -
Here is paradise with its delights!
Everything else is such a small thing...?
Why should we call the face - the moon,
Or a pair of blue lotuses - eyes,
Ile gold grains - particles,
What is living flesh made of?
Only fools who despised the truth,
Believing the deceitful nonsense of the poets,
Beautiful bodies are served, consisting
Of smooth skin, meat and bones.
Than a beautiful gaze, wound me better than a snake -
Nimble, unsteady, in iridescent sparkling
Elastic curves, with glossy skin
Blue lotus colors. From a snake bite
A good healer will heal
But herbs and mantras are powerless
Against the lightning of wondrous eyes!
Bhartrihari
You are gentle, anichchama flower, I do not argue, but a lot
More tenderly my beloved touchy.
Sparkles like pearls, the smile of the desired - and similar
With bamboo her golden skin.
Lilies are embarrassed, bowing before the desired:
"Her eyes overshadow us."
The beloved wears flowers with an uncut stem,
And become her burden of flower vibrations.
Unable to distinguish my desired from the moon,
Stars are looking down from above.
Tirukural
So we got to Persian poetry with its star shining through the centuries, an amazing phenomenon in the history of culture not only of the peoples of Central Asia, but of the whole world - Omar Khayyam. The man, known to most as the author of laconic, but elegant in their simplicity, captivating with the imagery and capacity of the rubaiyat, made a significant contribution to the development of physics, mathematics, astronomy, his discoveries have been translated into many languages. But we are now interested in his poems about the beauty of a woman
Rosehip scarlet gentle? You are more tender.
Chinese idol is lush? You are more magnificent.
Is the chess king weak before the queen?
But I, a fool, am weaker in front of you!
In the morning the faces of the tulips are covered with dew,
And violets, when wet, do not shine with beauty.
I like a rose that has not yet blossomed,
Slightly noticeable hem raised her own.
My idol, the potter fashioned you like this,
That before you the moon is ashamed of the spell.
Let others decorate themselves for the holiday.
You have a gift to decorate a holiday with yourself.
To the glow of the moon, beauties of the night,
I will add the warmth given by a candle,
The sparkle of sugar, the posture of cypress,
The murmur of a stream... And your appearance will come out.
I dressed many women in brocade, pearls,
But I could not find the ideal among them.
I asked the wise man: - What is perfection?
- The one next to you! - He told me.
Omar Khayyam
