In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

Haji’s Rubaiyyat Come, fill the cup, and in the fire of Spring Your Winter-garment of repentance fling: The bird of time has but a little way To flutter—and the bird is on the wing. —Omar Khayyam I could rationalize the stars, Khayyam, Make much out of the man I think I am; My quatrains still would produce empty rhymes, A song to hear but not to understand. The bowl of fire once used to hold the day (Now a subject of anthropology) Is filled with fissures. All substance escapes From every broken word I try to say. The bird may very well be on the wing, But there is nothing left for him to sing; His throat is dry and wine no longer wets His whistle to sound his inner being. Is it enough to inhabit silence? Is it enough to sit in the dark since It is impossible to prove myself? I’ve done the math and found I make no sense. This age still mourns the absent nightingale And would revive its songs: traditional Sounds of nature where spirit and matter Make music that means something beautiful. 56 You are reading copyrighted material published by Ohio University Press/Swallow Press. Unauthorized posting, copying, or distributing of this work except as permitted under U.S. copyright law is illegal and injures the author and publisher. The bird beak’s screech like nails on a chalkboard, The needle’s scratch on a broken record, Have overplayed the Persian romance themes (Traces of which are seldom ever heard). I should’ve been the song itself before The Fall, when constructors of meaning bore Their names by craft: “Attar” became “druggist”; “Assar”: “oil presser”; “Khayyam”: “tent maker.” Called “Haji,” a name self-chosen, I’ve yet To make my Mecca pilgrimage; I’ve yet To make a thing of myself worth saying. When asked, “What do you do?” I say, “I’ve yet.” Oh for the afterlife! Oh for the voice Of Allah to tell me I have no choice But to submit and save my hopeless soul; I’d find myself with angels and rejoice. But nothing is determined in this world. My only fate is played out in the whirl Of a dervish around an emptiness That I inhabit but can never fill. Take me as critic of your Rubaiyyat Or else leave me as nothing, a whole note, Blank oval in a song with no meaning That sings of who I am by what I’m not. 57 You are reading copyrighted material published by Ohio University Press/Swallow Press. Unauthorized posting, copying, or distributing of this work except as permitted under U.S. copyright law is illegal and injures the author and publisher. ...

Share