Mystical Genres

[Chester_100]

Hello everybody,

A great wealth of Persian literature is dedicated to
a genre which one could call ‘mystical love’. This includes extremely morbid expressions of a person’s emotional state whose pains can not be eased.

Through his verses, the poet exceptionally describes the painful condition of separation (from God or his beloved) and usually talks about the only remedy: Unity with the one they need.

Here are some verses of this type by Sa’di which are translated into English:


Happy are the days of them that are infatuated by love for Him, whether they be sorrowed by separation from Him or made joyous by His presence.

They are mendicants who fly from worldly sovereignty; in the hope of meeting Him

Often have they drunk of the wine of anguish; be it bitter, they remain silent

They that are captive in the coils of His love, seek not to escape; they suffer reproach, but are monarchs in the seclusion of their mendication, and their way is not known.


By the way, in Persian masculine and feminine pronouns are not distinguished; As a result, we don’t know clearly who the poet’s real love is!

Now, please share your ideas with me concerning the following questions:

1. Is the translation effective? That is, does it evoke the same sad feeling in the native speaker?

2. Are there any types of such literature in English? If so, would you please mention the poets’ names and works?

[Bitterfly]

Thanks for that translation. I for one know not one iota about Persian poetry... And yes, it's pretty melancholic.

Less morbid, and not English but Spanish, yet a translation of a rather beautiful mystical love poem by St John of the Cross ("Stanzas of the Soul"). I like this sort of poetry!

One dark night,
fired with love's urgent longings
- ah, the sheer grace! -
I went out unseen,
my house being now all stilled.

In darkness, and secure,
by the secret ladder, disguised,
- ah, the sheer grace! -
in darkness and concealment,
my house being now all stilled.

On that glad night,
in secret, for no one saw me,
nor did I look at anything,
with no other light or guide
than the one that burned in my heart.

This guided me
more surely than the light of noon
to where he was awaiting me
- him I knew so well -
there in a place where no one appeared.

O guiding night!
O night more lovely than the dawn!
O night that has united
the Lover with his beloved,
transforming the beloved in her Lover.

Upon my flowering breast
which I kept wholly for him alone,
there he lay sleeping,
and I caressing him
there in a breeze from the fanning cedars.

When the breeze blew from the turret,
as I parted his hair,
it wounded my neck
with its gentle hand,
suspending all my senses.

I abandoned and forgot myself,
laying my face on my Beloved;
all things ceased; I went out from myself,
leaving my cares
forgotten among the lilies.

[JBI]

In response to St. John of the Cross,



O dark dark dark. They all go into the dark,
The vacant interstellar spaces, the vacant into the vacant,
The captains, merchant bankers, eminent men of letters,
The generous patrons of art, the statesmen and the rulers,
Distinguished civil servants, chairmen of many committees,
Industrial lords and petty contractors, all go into the dark,
And dark the Sun and Moon, and the Almanach de Gotha
And the Stock Exchange Gazette, the Directory of Directors,
And cold the sense and lost the motive of action.
And we all go with them, into the silent funeral,
Nobody's funeral, for there is no one to bury.
I said to my soul, be still, and let the dark come upon you
Which shall be the darkness of God. As, in a theatre,
The lights are extinguished, for the scene to be changed
With a hollow rumble of wings, with a movement of darkness on darkness,
And we know that the hills and the trees, the distant panorama
And the bold imposing façade are all being rolled away—
Or as, when an underground train, in the tube, stops too long between stations
And the conversation rises and slowly fades into silence
And you see behind every face the mental emptiness deepen
Leaving only the growing terror of nothing to think about;
Or when, under ether, the mind is conscious but conscious of nothing—
I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love,
For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith
But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:
So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.
Whisper of running streams, and winter lightning.
The wild thyme unseen and the wild strawberry,
The laughter in the garden, echoed ecstasy
Not lost, but requiring, pointing to the agony
Of death and birth.

from T.S. Eliot's East Coker.

[Bitterfly]

Beautiful! I had no idea it was written in response to St John of the Cross!

Three stanzas by St Teresa de Avila ("To live of love"):
13.
“To live of love, — what foolishness she sings!”
So cries the world. “Renounce such idle joy!
Waste not thy perfumes on such trivial things.
In useful arts thy talents now employ!”
To love Thee, Jesus! Ah, this loss is gain;
For all my perfumes no reward seek I.
Quitting the world, I sing in death’s sweet pain:
Of love I die!
14.
To die of love, O martyrdom most blest!
For this I long, this is my heart’s desire;
My exile ends; I soon will be at rest.
Ye Cherubim, lend, lend to me your lyre!
O dart of Seraphim, O flame of love,
Consume me wholly; hear my ardent cry!
Jesu, make real my dream! Come Holy Dove!
Of love I die!
15.
To die of love, behold my life’s long hope!
God is my one exceeding great reward.
He of my wishes forms the end and scope;
Him only do I seek; my dearest Lord.
With passionate love for Him my heart is riven.
O may He quickly come! He draweth nigh!
Behold my destiny, behold my heaven, —
OF LOVE TO DIE.

[stlukesguild]

And of course St. John of the Cross (San Juan de la Cruz) intended his poetry in response to... or in the tradition of the Hebrew Song of Solomon.