Three Poems: Lovers, Beauty, Liberation, Transient Constancy & Poetry

Desire - From The Love Poems Of Rumi

A lover knows only humility,
he has no choice.
He steals into your alley at night,
he has no choice.
He longs to kiss every lock of your hair,
don't fret, he has no choice.
In his frenzied love for you,
he longs to break the chains of his imprisonment,
he has no choice.

A lover asked his beloved:
Do you love yourself more than you love me?
Beloved replied: I've died to myself and I live for you.
I've disappeared from myself and my attributes,
I am present only for you.
I've forgotten all my learnings,
but from knowing you I have become a scholar.
I have lost all my strength,
but from your power I am able.

I love myself ... I love you.
I love you ... I love myself.

I am your lover, come to my side,
I will open the gate to your love.
Come settle with me, let us be neighbours to the stars.
You have been hiding so long,
endlessly drifting in the sea of my love.
Even so, you have always been connected to me.
Concealed, revealed, in the unknown, in the un-manifest.
I am life itself.

You have been a prisoner of a little pond,
I am the ocean and its turbulent flood.
Come merge with me,
leave this world of ignorance.
Be with me, I will open the gate to your love.

I desire you more than food or drink.
My body, my senses, my mind, hunger for your taste.
I can sense your presence in my heart
although you belong to all the world
I wait with silent passion for one gesture,
one glance from you.


*More on Verschwiegene Liebe (Silent Love), see here...

Lyrics from a poem by Josef Karl Benedikt von Eichendorff (1788-1857).

Over treetops and cornfields, and into the splendour – Who may guess at them, who could overtake them? Thoughts float away. Night keeps her secrets. Thoughts are free. If only she could guess, who has been thinking of her, by the rustling of the grove, when no one was awake. Save the clouds flying past – My love keeps its secret, and is beautiful as the night.

Über Wipfel und Saaten
In den Glanz hinein -
Wer mag sie erraten,
Wer holte sie ein?
Gedanken sich wiegen,
Die Nacht ist verschwiegen,
Gedanken sind frei.

Errät es nur eine,
Wer an sie gedacht
Beim Rauschen der Haine,
Wenn niemand mehr wacht
Als die Wolken, die fliegen -
Mein Lieb ist verschwiegen
Und schön wie die Nacht.

(Also listen to my beloved lyric baritone Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau's beautiful rendition of Verschwiegene Liebe here.)

*     *     *

One Woman to All Women
by D. H. Lawrence (1885-1930)

I don't care whether I am beautiful to you
You other women.
Nothing of me that you see is my own;
A man balances, bone unto bone
Balances, everything thrown
In the scale, you other women.

You may look and say to yourselves, I do
Not show like the rest.
My face may not please you, nor my stature; yet if you knew
How happy I am, how my heart in the wind rings true
Like a bell that is chiming, each stroke as a stroke falls due,
You other women:

You would draw your mirror towards you, you would wish
To be different.
There's the beauty you cannot see, myself and him
Balanced in glorious equilibrium,
The swinging beauty of equilibrium,
You other women.

There's this other beauty, the way of the stars
You straggling women.
If you knew how I swerve in peace, in the equi-poise
With the man, if you knew how my flesh enjoys
The swinging bliss no shattering ever destroys
You other women:

You would envy me, you would think me wonderful
Beyond compare;
You would weep to be lapsing on such harmony
As carries me, you would wonder aloud that he
Who is so strange should correspond with me everywhere.

You see he is different, he is dangerous,
Without pity or love.
And yet how his separate being liberates me
And gives me peace! You cannot see
How the stars are moving in surety
Exquisite, high above.

We move without knowing, we sleep, and we travel on,
You other women.
And this is beauty to me, to be lifted and gone
In a motion human inhuman, two and one
Encompassed, and many reduced to none,
You other women.



*     *     *

The Art Of Poetry
Jorge Luis Borges (1899-1986)

To gaze at a river made of time and water
And remember Time is another river.
To know we stray like a river
and our faces vanish like water.

To feel that waking is another dream
that dreams of not dreaming and that the death
we fear in our bones is the death
that every night we call a dream.

To see in every day and year a symbol
of all the days of man and his years,
and convert the outrage of the years
into a music, a sound, and a symbol.

To see in death a dream, in the sunset
a golden sadness--such is poetry,
humble and immortal, poetry,
returning, like dawn and the sunset.

Sometimes at evening there's a face
that sees us from the deeps of a mirror.
Art must be that sort of mirror,
disclosing to each of us his face.

They say Ulysses, wearied of wonders,
wept with love on seeing Ithaca,
humble and green. Art is that Ithaca,
a green eternity, not wonders.

Art is endless like a river flowing,
passing, yet remaining, a mirror to the same
inconstant Heraclitus, who is the same
and yet another, like the river flowing.


Arte Poética
Jorge Luis Borges (1899-1986)

Mirar el río hecho de tiempo y agua
y recordar que el tiempo es otro río,
saber que nos perdemos como el río
y que los rostros pasan como el agua.

Sentir que la vigilia es otro sueño
que sueña no soñar y que la muerte
que teme nuestra carne es esa muerte
de cada noche, que se llama sueño.

Ver en el día o en el año un símbolo
de los días del hombre y de sus años,
convertir el ultraje de los años
en una música, en un rumor y un símbolo,

Ver en la muerte el sueño, en el ocaso
un triste oro, tal es la poesía
que es inmortal y pobre. La poesía
vuelve como la aurora y el ocaso.

A veces en las tarde una cara
nos mira desde el fondo de un espejo;
el arte debe ser como ese espejo
que nos revela nuestra propia cara.

Cuentan que Ulises, arto de prodigios,
lloró de amor al divisar su Itaca
verde y humilde. El arte es esa Itaca
de verde eternidad, no de prodigios.

También es como el río interminable
que pasa y queda y es cristal de un mismo
Heráclito inconstante, que es el mismo
y es otro, como el río interminable.

Romeo, his Juliet, and their Sonnet; 周慕雲, 蘇麗貞, Mr Zhou, Mrs Su, and melodies of their love restraint (from 花樣年華 "In the Mood for Love")

The significance which is in

unity

is an eternal wonder.

~Rabindranath Tagore

+++

On "first love," and "love at first sight"...

It is when David Copperfield first laid his eyes on the ever lovely Dora Spenlow (to quote Peony, "Dora is a favourite child of nature. She is a thing of light, and airiness, and joy")... Love at first sight does exist. And this initial Swan Lake pas de deux (this particular rendition by Svetlana Zakharova and Roberto Bolle, still the most perfect classical ballet partnership today, for me), when Prince Siegfried first cast his gaze upon Princess Odette, illustrates 'love at first sight' to me perfectly. That is how I fell in love with Svetlana... Swan Lake remains to be one of my favourite classical ballets (and perhaps my absolute number one, that is if someone puts a gun to my head and asks...) -- in addition to the unparalleled beauty in the interaction and union of its music and movement, it is the complex analyses and portrayals of human psychology, so intrinsic to the understanding, appreciation and interpretation of this ballet, that truly and forever captures and mesmerises me. Why Odette is so hesitant, and with such internal/eternal sorrow, is that she already possesses the full knowledge that her love, Siegfried, would later betray her and break his promise, falling for the bewitching black swan Odille. And yet her longing for him cannot be more evident and heartrending in the later pas de deux (the dialogue/singing between the violin and the cello kills me, every time, as well as how the dancers finish their last movement with that final musical phrase, see also here), following their first encounter.



*   *   *

And first love, in choreographer Kenneth MacMillan's ballet Romeo and Juliet, when Romeo first laid eyes on Juliet in that very masquerade ball, when she was to dance with her future husband... (starting around 2:00) "Did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight! For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night." The balcony scene which follows is a complete and utter display of Romeo's romantic passion for Juliet, as well as her surrender to his love (leading to the total abandonment shown in their later pas de deux). I always get very emotional when I see this ballet performed live... with Prokofiev's genius music. Such is the wonder and essence of art.
"A arte existe porque a vida não basta." (Ferreira Gullar) Art exists because life is not enough. It is as Friedrich Nietzsche said in The Birth of Tragedy, “it is only as an aesthetic phenomenon that existence and the world are eternally justified.”



The beautiful Prima Ballerina of Royal Ballet, Tamara Rojo, who is known for her dramatic interpretation of roles as well as fierce technical brilliance, once said in an interview, "When I'm on stage (as Juliet), I feel I'm in love with Carlos. I am in love with Carlos when we dance." Indeed, an artist needs to pour his/her heart and soul completely into the work. Be completely bare, completely immersed/devoted, and hence completely illuminating -- a total embrace. This reminds me of Nijinsky and his diaries, one of my favourite books...

The balcony scene performed by Tamara Rojo and Carlos Acosta:



And...the "legendary" Alessandra Ferri and Wayne Eagling in the balcony scene pas de deux from Kenneth Macmillan's Romeo and Juliet, one of the greatest pas de deux moments of classical ballet.




Romeo: [To a Servingman]
What lady is that, which doth
enrich the hand
Of yonder knight?

Servant:
I know not, sir.

Romeo:
O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night
Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope's ear;
Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!
So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows,
As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows.
The measure done, I'll watch her place of stand,
And, touching hers, make blessed my rude hand.
Did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight!
For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.

*   *   *

Romeo: [To Juliet]
If I profane with my unworthiest hand
This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this:
My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand
To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.

Juliet:
Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,
Which mannerly devotion shows in this;
For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch,
And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss.

Romeo:
Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?

Juliet:
Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.

Romeo:
O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do;
They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.

Juliet:
Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake.

Romeo:
Then move not, while my prayer's effect I take.
Thus from my lips, by yours, my sin is purged.

Juliet:
Then have my lips the sin that they have took.

Romeo:
Sin from thy lips? O trespass sweetly urged!
Give me my sin again.

{*One of the first sonnets I ever studied as a world literature student, is this...}

An 1870 oil painting by Ford Madox Brown
depicting Romeo and Juliet's famous balcony scene.

*   *   *

Love seeketh not itself to please, nor for itself hath any care. But for another gives its ease, and builds a heaven in hell's despair.

~William Blake

*   *   *

To quote poet-essayist Ian Lennart Surraville's words (although these were regarding a film, I find them well suited to the notion of first love/love at first sight between Odette and Siegfried, Romeo and Juliet, and David and Nora):

"The fragile landscape of the two in love was most delicately sketched with its storytelling. Those of you who have been in love without self-dramatisation and egocentric delusions a usual Hollywood love story places would understand the exact nature of the harrowing sense of leaving and being left behind, emptiness and solitude, and demoralisation that comes with constantly remembering that inexplicably heart-bursting first moments of love. That irretrievability of what was once beautiful ... that incessant pursuit back to what is irretrievable ... and all those we end up hurting in the path toward it ..."

Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, "In bed, The kiss," 1892.

*   *   *

Unlike Romeo and Juliet, who fell madly and hopelessly in love with each other against all odds, when they were only 13/14 years of age (and their almost impetuous passion, resulting in the tragic end), the protagonists in my favourite film of all time, In the Mood for Love (花樣年華), 周慕雲 Zhou Muyun and 蘇麗貞 Su Lizhen, were placed under very different circumstances.

Mr Zhou and Mrs Su were next-door neighbours. They passed each other by everyday, uttering nothing more than some polite and insignificant words to one another. It was 1960s Hong Kong, a time of social decorum, repressed and reinforced by hundreds, if not thousands of years of customs and traditions in Chinese culture. Their love for each other developed, or rather, they fell in love, due to the affair their respective spouses were having with one another, as Mr Zhou and Mrs Su discovered and confirmed the painful truth which has been secretly staring them in the face. Why were they not more pro-active in the film? You might ask. The mixture of unrequited love, of regret and irretrievable longing, and the way director Wang Kar-Wai handles these conditions of emotions, are what make this movie a true masterpiece. One feels dizzy and heartbeat quickens with this swooningly gorgeous film -- slow, sexy, utterly breathtaking and intoxicating. Imagine being on a gondola ride with the one person you are terribly, painfully in love/lust with, taking in all the sensual scenery around you and yet not able to do anything. That is another key of appreciating and feeling (with your heart, in your heart) In the Mood for Love as the cinematic gem that it truly is.


*Now, my favourite scene from the movie, when Mr Zhou whispers his secrets, which we viewers shall never know, into the hole of an old tree at Angkor Wat, and seals it with mud and grass so that they will never escape, and hopefully, the tree will share the burden...
This motif is referenced throughout in Wang's later film 2046, a sort of a poetic-oneiric, and even science fiction-like(!) continuation of the story of Zhou Muyun and Su Lizhen, where Mr Zhou, a writer, who can never seem to stop writing (and hallucinating) about his story with, and his yearning for the elusive Mrs Su who forever haunts his memories and his dreams.


他一直沒有回頭
他彷彿坐上一串很長很長的列車
在茫茫夜色中開往朦朧的未來

那些消逝了的歲月，彷彿隔著一塊 
積著灰塵的玻璃，看得到，抓不著。 
他一直在懷念著過去的一切。如果他 
能衝破那塊積著灰塵的玻璃，
他會走回早已消逝的歲月。

"Whom would it not remain for---that
longed-after, 
mildly disillusioning presence, which the solitary heart
so painfully meets. Is it any less difficult for lovers?
But they keep on using each other to hide their own fate.
Don't you know yet? Fling the emptiness out of your arms
into the spaces we breathe; perhaps the birds
will feel the expanded air with more passionate flying.
(...)
Isn't it time that we lovingly 
freed ourselves from the beloved and, quivering, endured: 
as the arrow endures the bowstring's tension, so that 
gathered in the snap of release it can be more than
itself. For there is no place where we can remain.
(...)
and then in the startled space which a youth as lovely as a
god
had suddenly left forever, the Void felt for the first time
that harmony which now enraptures and comforts and helps 
us."

~Rainer Maria Rilke, from 'The First Elegy,' Duino Elegies, 
translated into English by Stephen Mitchell

*   *   *

Hic ego qui iaceo tenerorum lusor amorum
    Ingenio perii, Naso poeta, meo. 
At tibi qui transis, ne sit grave, quisquis amasti, 
    Dicere: Nasonis molliter ossa cubent. 

Here I lie, who played with tender loves, 
       Naso the poet, killed by my own talent. 
O passerby, if you've ever been in love, let it not be too much for you to say: 
       May the bones of Naso lie gently. 

(Ovid, Tristia 3.3.73–76)

*   *   *

Leaving you with one last quotation, on time, eternity, the art of love and the art of waiting. Also from Mr. Surraville, in response to Jacob's love story in Genesis (I guess you just have to read the Bible now, kids!):

A true love's gaze always carries an inevitable sense of eternity that transcends all the temporary things of this world.