鬲乇丕賳賴 賴丕蹖 禺蹖丕賲 = The Ruba'iyat of Omar Khayyam, Omar Khayy谩m, Edward FitzGerald (Translator)
Omar Khayy谩m (1048鈥�1131) 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 鈥渢he philosopher of the world鈥�. Many sources have testified that he taught for decades the philosophy of Ibn Sina in Nishapur where Khayy谩m 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, Khayy谩m 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鈥�1703) was the first non-Persian to study him. The most influential of all was Edward FitzGerald (1809鈥�83), who made Khayy谩m the most famous poet of the East in the West through his celebrated translation and adaptations of Khayy谩m's rather small number of quatrains (rubaiyaas) in Rub谩iy谩t of Omar Khayy谩m.
A Ruba'i is a two-line stanza with two parts (or hemstitch) per line, hence the word rub谩iy谩t (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!
鈥淎nd this I know: whether the one True Light, Kindle to Love, or Wrath -- consume me quite, One Glimpse of It within the Tavern caught Better than in the Temple lost outright.鈥�
鈥擮mar Khayyam
Omar Khayyam was a Persian polymath, mathematician, astronomer, historian, philosopher, and poet. His poetry became widely known to the English-reading world in a translation by Edward FitzGerald (Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, 1859), which enjoyed great success in the Orientalism of the fin de si猫cle. Khayyam was famous during his life as a mathematician. Some of his mathematical works are the theory of parallels, the real number concept, geometric algebra, binomial theorem, and extraction of roots.
A literal reading of Khayyam's quatrains leads to the interpretation of his philosophic attitude toward life as a combination of pessimism, nihilism, Epicureanism, fatalism, and agnosticism. Edward FitzGerald emphasized the religious skepticism he found in Khayyam.In his preface to the Rub谩iy谩t he claimed that he "was hated and dreaded by the Sufis", and denied any pretense at divine allegory: "his Wine is the veritable Juice of the Grape: his Tavern, where it was to be had: his Saki, the Flesh and Blood that poured it out for him."鈥� Sadegh Hedayat is one of the most notable proponents of Khayyam's philosophy as agnostic skepticism, and according to Jan Rypka (1934), he even considered Khayyam an atheist. Hedayat (1923) states that "while Khayyam believes in the transmutation and transformation of the human body, he does not believe in a separate soul; if we are lucky, our bodily particles would be used in the making of a jug of wine.鈥� In a later study (1934鈥�35) he further contends that Khayyam's use of Sufic terminology such as "wine" is literal and that he turned to the pleasures of the moment as an antidote to his existential sorrow: "Khayyam took refuge in wine to ward off bitterness and to blunt the cutting edge of his thoughts.鈥� Agatha Christie was influenced by Khayyam, and inspired the title The Moving Finger (Miss Marple series) by this poem:
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.
Personal opinion:
I believe Khayyam鈥檚 poetry is way more understandable than other Persian writers of his time. It was a good place for me to read the precious poems of my country with deep thoughtfulness. While reading, I wondered what West had found so intriguing in Khayyam. Was it the agnostic, pessimist, and hedonistic tone of his poem? Or because he seemed pretty straightforward鈥攗nlike Rumi or Hafiz. He was obviously against akhunds and perhaps Islam itself. After reading Hedayat鈥檚 writings, I believe he could relate to Khayyam. They both bluntly attacked akhunds for deceiving people with 鈥渓egends鈥� and mocked people for blindly listening to them. Skepticism vs. Sufism debate will remain, but the beauty of the poetry is equally precious to all ears. For me, Khayyam鈥檚 poems were a haven for my recent extremely frustrating and busy nights and days. Khayyam had an ambivalent tone of take-it-easy and tragedy, which reminded me of the Lost Generation鈥攑artying and endless Gatsby nights, but all were trying to conceal and flee from their deep wounds. Thus, all weary and lost will find a haven within his poetry.
鈥淭he sphere upon which mortals come and go, Has no end nor beginning that we know; And none there is to tell us in plain truth: Whence do we come and whither do we go.鈥�