"The poet Rumi says the wound is the place where the light enters you."
John Bester, x:
The poet stands, as it were, between the primrose and the Pleiades: aware of the infinities of space and time, aware of himself as a single creature among countless living creatures of countless different species, whose tragedy it is to live by preying on each other […]
“François Rabelais. He was this poet. And his last words were ‘I go to seek a Great Perhaps.’ That’s why I’m going. So I don’t have to wait until I die to start seeking a Great Perhaps.”
Sayfa 10Kitabı okudu
“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story.
From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out.
I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”
Sayfa 40
"So this guy," I said, standing in the doorway of the living room, "François Rabelais, He was this poet. And his last words were, 'I go to seek a Great Perhaps.' That's why I'm going. So I don't have to wait until I die to start seeking a Great Perhaps."
Sayfa 11
After Ériu tells the Milesians that Ireland is the fairest of all lands under the sun and that the Milesians are the most perfect race the world has ever seen, the poet Amairgin promises her that the country will bear her name. Indeed, the Modern Irish name for the Republic of Ireland, Éire, is derived from Ériu, as is the anglicization Erin.
“Seize the day,” Keating repeated. “Why does the poet write these lines?”
“Because he’s in a hurry?” one student called out as the others snickered.
“No, No, No! It’s because we’re food for worms, lads!” Keating shouted.
“Because we’re only going to experience a limited number of springs, summers, and falls."
“One day, hard as it is to believe, each and every one of us is going to stop breathing, turn cold, and die!”
The Albatross
Often, to amuse themselves, the men of a crew
Catch albatrosses, those vast sea birds
That indolently follow a ship
As it glides over the deep, briny sea.
Scarcely have they placed them on the deck
Than these kings of the sky, clumsy, ashamed,
Pathetically let their great white wings
Drag beside them like oars.
That winged voyager, how weak and gauche he is,
So beautiful before, now comic and ugly!
One man worries his beak with a stubby clay pipe;
Another limps, mimics the cripple who once flew!
The poet resembles this prince of cloud and sky
Who frequents the tempest and laughs at the bowman;
When exiled on the earth, the butt of hoots and jeers,
His giant wings prevent him from walking.
This idea [of polarity in the nature] is beautifully expressed by the great Muslim poet and mystic, Rumi.
''Kalbinizde çözümlenmemiş olan şeylere karşı sabırlı olun ve sorunları sevmeye çalışın. Şimdi sorunları yaşayın. Belki de aşamalı olarak, farkına bile varmadan yanıtlarla birlikte yaşayacaksınız.''
The great Sufi mystic and poet, Jalaluddin Rumi, said: "The religion of love is distinct from all others; the lovers of God have a religion and a faith all their own."
What is this religion of love? It has no name. Neither does it have any nationality. It is beginningless, and without end. It originates in the heart...
...
Love calls, and Love responds.
... in countless hearts, throughout the universe, this religion lives, and supplies the world with Love.
When the poet sang me the fall of Troy, his story told of the king’s daughter Cassandra, who, foresaw what would happen and tried to prevent the Trojans from letting the great horse into the city, but no one would listen to her: it was a curse laid on her, to see the truth and say it and not be heard. It is a curse laid on women more often than on men. Men want the truth to be theirs, their discovery and property.
Sayfa 116 - MarinerKitabı okudu
Kalbinizde çözümlenmemiş olan şeylere karşı sabırlı olun ve sorunları sevmeye çalışın. Şimdi sorunları yaşayın. Belki de aşamalı olarak, farkına bile varmadan yanıtlarla birlikte yaşayacaksınız.
- Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet
