On this tree is a bird: It dances in the joy of life. No one knows where it is: And who knows what the burden Of its music may be? Where the branches throw a deep shade, There does it have its nest: And it comes in the evening And flies away in the morning, And says not a word Of that which it means. None tell me of this bird That sings within me. It is neither coloured nor colourless: It has neither form nor outline: It sits in the shadow of love. It dwells within the Unattainable, The Infinite, and the Eternal; And no one marks When it comes and goes. Kabir says, “O brother Sadhu! Deep is the mystery. Let wise men seek to know where rests that bird.”
NOTE: This is the translation by Rabindranath Tagore from the 1915 text, One Hundred Poems of Kabir. This is poem #30 (XXX) of that volume.
There was a little girl, Who had a little curl, Right in the middle of her forehead. When she was good, She was very good indeed, But when she was bad she was horrid.
It thrives in silence and with calm -- ephemeral and gossamer. It's ever-flowing harmony, gliding with a solitary crane, wisping like the gentle breezes that rustle and billow one's robe, trilling softly like a bamboo flute. How does one become one with it? A chance meeting, lucked into, but don't lunge forward, or it'll vanish. When you think it's attainable, it twists in your hand and is gone.
NOTE: The late Tang Dynasty poet, Sikong Tu (a.k.a. Ssŭ-k‘ung T‘u,) wrote an ars poetica entitled Twenty-Four Styles of Poetry. It presents twenty-four poems that are each in a different tone, reflecting varied concepts from Taoist philosophy and aesthetics. Above is a translation of the second of the twenty-four poems.
I The grey sea and the long black land; And the yellow half-moon large and low; And the startled little waves that leap In fiery ringlets from their sleep, As I gain the cove with pushing prow, And quench its speed i' the slushy sand.
II Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach; Three fields to cross till a farm appears; A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch And blue spurt of a lighted match, And a voice less loud, thro' its joys and fears, Than the two hearts beating each to each!
Remember me when I am gone away, Gone far away into the silent land; When you can no more hold me by the hand, Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay. Remember me when no more day by day You tell me of our future that you plann'd: Only remember me; you understand It will be late to counsel then or pray. Yet if you should forget me for a while And afterwards remember, do no grieve: For if the darkness and corruption leave A vestige of the thoughts that once I had, Better by far you should forget and smile Than that you should remember and be sad.
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be, Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow, And soonest our best men with thee do go, Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery. Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 