نگفتمت مرو آنجا که آشنات منم
درین سراب فنا چشمهء حیات منم؟
وگر به خشم روی صدهزارسال ز من
به عاقبت به من آیی که منتـهات منم؟
نگفتمت که به نقش جهان مشو راضی
که نقش‌بند سراپردهء رضات منم؟
نگفتمت منم بحر و تو یکی ماهی
مرو به خشک که دریای با صفات منم؟
نگفتمت که چو مرغان بسوی دام مرو
بیا که قوت پرواز و پر و پات منم؟
نگفتمت که ترا ره زنند و سرد کنند
که آتش و تـپـش و گرمی هوات منم؟
نگفتمت که صفتهای زشت در تو نهند
که گم کنی که سر چشمة صفات منم؟
نگفتمت که مگو کار بنده از چه جهت
نظام گیرد، خلاق بی‌جهات منم؟
اگر چراغ دلی دانک راه خانه کجاست!
وگر خدا صفتی دانک کدخدات منم!
قبلا چیزی از مثنوی خونده بودم اینجا. این رو از شمس باید بهش اضافه می کردم. چرا یادم نمونده بود؟ چرا؟
امّا بنده‌ی خدا را و خاصِّ خدا را چو وقت آید، چه زَهره باشد شیطان را که گِردِ او گردد؟ فریشته هم به حساب گِردِ او بگردد.
این واسم خیلی خیلی جالب بود:
زر قلب و زر نیکو در عیار / بی محک هرگز ندانی ز اعتبار
هر کرا در جان خدا بنهد محک / هر یقین را باز داند او ز شک
در دهان زنده خاشاکی جهد / آنگه آرامد که بیرونش نهد
در هزاران لقمه یک خاشاک خرد / چون درآمد حس زنده پی ببرد
این بیان این موضوعه که آدم باید محکی برای تمایز بین خوب و بد تو دلش داشته باشه. نه! بیان اینه که آدم محکی برای تمایز بین خوب و بد تو دلش داره. نه هر آدمی، قبلش رو نگاه کنی داره از مومن یا موافق می گه در برابر منافق:
مومنش خوانند جانش خوش شود / وز منافق تیز و پر آتش شود
داستان اینه که وقتی آدمی که محک رو تو قلبش داره اشتباه می کنه تمام وجودش آزرده میشه و سعی می کنه ازش کنار بکشه. تشبیه زیباست. همونطور که خاشاکی تو لقمه باشه سریع متوجه می شی و سعی می کنی بیرونش بیاری وقتی بدی سراغت میاد می فهمی و سعی می کنه از وجودت خارجش کنی. شرط این همه اینه که خدا این محک رو تو وجودت گذاشته باشه. در واقع این لطفیه که خدا بهت کرده؟ یا اینکه تو شایستگیش رو پیدا کردی که بهت این لطف رو بکنه؟ من جواب این سوالا را نمی دونم ولی فکر می کنم هر دوشه. همونطور که حافظ جونم می گه:
دلا معاش چنان کن که گر بلغزد پای / فرشته ات به دو دست دعا نگه دارد
من عاشق این بیت حافظم. می دونستی؟ نظر حافظ اینه که باید اینکار رو کرد:
هر آنگه جانب اهل وفا نگه دارد / خداش در همه حال از بلا نگه دارد
به هر حال وای به روزی که محک نداشته باشی:
چون محک پنهان شدهست از مرد و زن /در صف آ اى قلب و اکنون لافزن
وقت لاف است محک چون غایب است/مىبرندت از عزیزى دست دست
قلب مىگوید ز نخوت هر دمم/اى زر خالص من از تو کى کمم
زر همى گوید بلى اى خواجه تاش/لیک مى آید محک آماده باش
چی؟ فکر کردی پیش نمیاد که محکه گم شه؟ چرا! پیش میاد، زیاد هم پیش میاد l(من نمونه ش، واسه من که خیلی خیلی زیاد پیش اومده) مگه همونطور که حافظ جون گفته خیلی خیلی مواظبش باشی، هی پشت سر هم هم توکل کنی. اونوقت حتی اگه پیش هم بیاد مثل اینکه خاشاک خورده باشی می فهمی یا مثل اینکه غذای مسموم خورده باشی انقده بالا میاری (اونم با درد، انگار که جونت می خواد بالا بیاد) که بفهمی آشغال قورت داده این دفعه.
یه روز همین جا نوشته بودم:
"باید طوری باشی که از خوب بودنت لذّت ببری، باید انقده خوب بودن برات عادی باشه که وقتی حتّی یه ذرّه بدی از خودت متنفّر شی. منو ببین با کی از چی حرف می‌زنم! هاهاها!"
زندگی رسم خوشایندی است
زندگی بال و پری دارد با وسعت مرگ
پرشی داد اندازه ی عشق
زندگی چیزی نیست
که لب تاقچه ی عادت از یاد من و تو برود.
هر کجا هستم، باشم
آسمان مال من است
پنجره، فکر، هوا، عشق، زمین مال من است
چه اهمیت دارد
گاه اگر می رویند
قارچ های غربت؟
هست مهمانخانه این تن ای جوان
هر صباحی ضیف نو آید دوان
هین مگو کین ماند اندر گردنم
که همکنون بازپرد در عدم
هرچه آید از جهان غیب پوش
در دلت ضیف است او را دار خوش
این شعر مثنوی رو شاید خونده بودم ولی راستش یک صدم تاثیری رو روم نذاشته بود که ترجمه ای که Coleman ازش کرده روم گذاشت. این ترجمه رو یکی از اعضای گروه شمس بهم معرفی کرد.
در عشق سلیمانی من همدم مرغانم | هم عشق پری دارم هم مرد پری خوانم | |
| هر کس که پری خوتر در شیشه کنم زودتر | برخوانم افسونش حراقه بجنبانم | |
| زین واقعه مدهوشم باهوشم و بی‌هوشم | هم ناطق و خاموشم هم لوح خموشانم | |
| فریاد که آن مریم رنگی دگر است این دم | فریاد کز این حالت فریاد نمی‌دانم | |
| زان رنگ چه بی‌رنگم زان طره چو آونگم | زان شمع چو پروانه یا رب چه پریشانم | |
| گفتم که مها جانی امروز دگر سانی | گفتا که بر او منگر از دیده انسانم | |
| ای خواجه اگر مردی تشویش چه آوردی | کز آتش حرص تو پردود شود جانم | |
| یا عاشق شیدا شو یا از بر ما واشو | در پرده میا با خود تا پرده نگردانم | |
| هم خونم و هم شیرم هم طفلم و هم پیرم | هم چاکر و هم میرم هم اینم و هم آنم | |
| هم شمس شکرریزم هم خطه تبریزم | هم ساقی و هم مستم هم شهره و پنهانم |
این رو دوستی پست کرده:
آن که می گوید دوستت می
دارم
خنیاگر غمگینی است
که آوازش را از دست داده است .
ای کاش عشق
را...زبان
سخن بود
هزاران کاکلی شاد
در چشمان توست
هزار قناری خاموش
در
گلوی من .
عشق را
ای کاش زبان سخن بود
براش می نویسم:
حمید تو فکر می کنی معادل کلمه ی «پرفکت» بی کم و کاست یا بی نقص باشه؟ واسه یه همچین شعری کلمه ی « زیبا»، «عالی» یا مشابهش ادای بی کم و کاستی مطلب نمی کنه، کلمه ی ِ «بی نقص» یا «بی کم و کاست» هم تو ذهن من عالی بودن رو تداعی نمی کنه. چرا فکر می کنم «پرفکت» کلمه ی بهتریه؟ تو کلمه ی فارسی می شناسی که بشه همچین موقعایی استفاده کرد؟ وقتایی که «عشق را ای کاش زبان سخن بود»؟ کلمه ای مثل «بی نظیر» چطوره؟ یا اینکه اینجا هم حیات بی زبان سخنه؟
My friends, there hath arisen a satire on your friend: "Behold Zarathustra! Walketh he not amongst us as if amongst animals?"
But it is better said in this wise: "The discerning one walketh amongst men AS amongst animals."
Man himself is to the discerning one: the animal with red cheeks.
How hath that happened unto him? Is it not because he hath had to be ashamed too oft?
O my friends! Thus speaketh the discerning one: shame, shame, shame--that is the history of man!
And on that account doth the noble one enjoin upon himself not to abash: bashfulness doth he enjoin on himself in presence of all sufferers.
Verily, I like them not, the merciful ones, whose bliss is in their pity: too destitute are they of bashfulness.
If I must be pitiful, I dislike to be called so; and if I be so, it is preferably at a distance.
Preferably also do I shroud my head, and flee, before being recognised: and thus do I bid you do, my friends!
May my destiny ever lead unafflicted ones like you across my path, and those with whom I MAY have hope and repast and honey in common!
Verily, I have done this and that for the afflicted: but something better did I always seem to do when I had learned to enjoy myself better.
Since humanity came into being, man hath enjoyed himself too little: that alone, my brethren, is our original sin!
And when we learn better to enjoy ourselves, then do we unlearn best to give pain unto others, and to contrive pain.
Therefore do I wash the hand that hath helped the sufferer; therefore do I wipe also my soul.
For in seeing the sufferer suffering--thereof was I ashamed on account of his shame; and in helping him, sorely did I wound his pride.
Great obligations do not make grateful, but revengeful; and when a small kindness is not forgotten, it becometh a gnawing worm.
"Be shy in accepting! Distinguish by accepting!"--thus do I advise those who have naught to bestow.
I, however, am a bestower: willingly do I bestow as friend to friends. Strangers, however, and the poor, may pluck for themselves the fruit from my tree: thus doth it cause less shame.
Beggars, however, one should entirely do away with! Verily, it annoyeth one to give unto them, and it annoyeth one not to give unto them.
And likewise sinners and bad consciences! Believe me, my friends: the sting of conscience teacheth one to sting.
The worst things, however, are the petty thoughts. Verily, better to have done evilly than to have thought pettily!
To be sure, ye say: "The delight in petty evils spareth one many a great evil deed." But here one should not wish to be sparing.
Like a boil is the evil deed: it itcheth and irritateth and breaketh forth--it speaketh honourably.
"Behold, I am disease," saith the evil deed: that is its honourableness.
But like infection is the petty thought: it creepeth and hideth, and wanteth to be nowhere--until the whole body is decayed and withered by the petty infection.
To him however, who is possessed of a devil, I would whisper this word in the ear: "Better for thee to rear up thy devil! Even for thee there is still a path to greatness!"--
Ah, my brethren! One knoweth a little too much about every one! And many a one becometh transparent to us, but still we can by no means penetrate him.
It is difficult to live among men because silence is so difficult.
And not to him who is offensive to us are we most unfair, but to him who doth not concern us at all.
If, however, thou hast a suffering friend, then be a resting-place for his suffering; like a hard bed, however, a camp-bed: thus wilt thou serve him best.
And if a friend doeth thee wrong, then say: "I forgive thee what thou hast done unto me; that thou hast done it unto THYSELF, however--how could I forgive that!"
Thus speaketh all great love: it surpasseth even forgiveness and pity.
One should hold fast one's heart; for when one letteth it go, how quickly doth one's head run away!
Ah, where in the world have there been greater follies than with the pitiful? And what in the world hath caused more suffering than the follies of the pitiful?
Woe unto all loving ones who have not an elevation which is above their pity!
Thus spake the devil unto me, once on a time: "Even God hath his hell: it is his love for man."
And lately, did I hear him say these words: "God is dead: of his pity for man hath God died."--
So be ye warned against pity: FROM THENCE there yet cometh unto men a heavy cloud! Verily, I understand weather-signs!
But attend also to this word: All great love is above all its pity: for it seeketh--to create what is loved!
"Myself do I offer unto my love, AND MY NEIGHBOUR AS MYSELF"--such is the language of all creators.
All creators, however, are hard.--
Thus spake Zarathustra.
Flee, my friend, into thy solitude! I see thee deafened with the noise of the great men, and stung all over with the stings of the little ones.
Admirably do forest and rock know how to be silent with thee. Resemble again the tree which thou lovest, the broad-branched one--silently and attentively it o'erhangeth the sea.
Where solitude endeth, there beginneth the market-place; and where the market-place beginneth, there beginneth also the noise of the great actors, and the buzzing of the poison-flies.
In the world even the best things are worthless without those who represent them: those representers, the people call great men.
Little do the people understand what is great--that is to say, the creating agency. But they have a taste for all representers and actors of great things.
Around the devisers of new values revolveth the world:--invisibly it revolveth. But around the actors revolve the people and the glory: such is the course of things.
Spirit, hath the actor, but little conscience of the spirit. He believeth always in that wherewith he maketh believe most strongly--in HIMSELF!
Tomorrow he hath a new belief, and the day after, one still newer. Sharp perceptions hath he, like the people, and changeable humours.
To upset--that meaneth with him to prove. To drive mad--that meaneth with him to convince. And blood is counted by him as the best of all arguments.
A truth which only glideth into fine ears, he calleth falsehood and trumpery. Verily, he believeth only in Gods that make a great noise in the world!
Full of clattering buffoons is the market-place,--and the people glory in their great men! These are for them the masters of the hour.
But the hour presseth them; so they press thee. And also from thee they want Yea or Nay. Alas! thou wouldst set thy chair betwixt For and Against?
On account of those absolute and impatient ones, be not jealous, thou lover of truth! Never yet did truth cling to the arm of an absolute one.
On account of those abrupt ones, return into thy security: only in the market-place is one assailed by Yea? or Nay?
Slow is the experience of all deep fountains: long have they to wait until they know WHAT hath fallen into their depths.
Away from the market-place and from fame taketh place all that is great: away from the market-Place and from fame have ever dwelt the devisers of new values.
Flee, my friend, into thy solitude: I see thee stung all over by the poisonous flies. Flee thither, where a rough, strong breeze bloweth!
Flee into thy solitude! Thou hast lived too closely to the small and the pitiable. Flee from their invisible vengeance! Towards thee they have nothing but vengeance.
Raise no longer an arm against them! Innumerable are they, and it is not thy lot to be a fly-flap.
Innumerable are the small and pitiable ones; and of many a proud structure, rain-drops and weeds have been the ruin.
Thou art not stone; but already hast thou become hollow by the numerous drops. Thou wilt yet break and burst by the numerous drops.
Exhausted I see thee, by poisonous flies; bleeding I see thee, and torn at a hundred spots; and thy pride will not even upbraid.
Blood they would have from thee in all innocence; blood their bloodless souls crave for--and they sting, therefore, in all innocence.
But thou, profound one, thou sufferest too profoundly even from small wounds; and ere thou hadst recovered, the same poison-worm crawled over thy hand.
Too proud art thou to kill these sweet-tooths. But take care lest it be thy fate to suffer all their poisonous injustice!
They buzz around thee also with their praise: obtrusiveness, is their praise. They want to be close to thy skin and thy blood.
They flatter thee, as one flattereth a God or devil; they whimper before thee, as before a God or devil. What doth it come to! Flatterers are they, and whimperers, and nothing more.
Often, also, do they show themselves to thee as amiable ones. But that hath ever been the prudence of the cowardly. Yea! the cowardly are wise!
They think much about thee with their circumscribed souls--thou art always suspected by them! Whatever is much thought about is at last thought suspicious.
They punish thee for all thy virtues. They pardon thee in their inmost hearts only--for thine errors.
Because thou art gentle and of upright character, thou sayest: "Blameless are they for their small existence." But their circumscribed souls think: "Blamable is all great existence."
Even when thou art gentle towards them, they still feel themselves despised by thee; and they repay thy beneficence with secret maleficence.
Thy silent pride is always counter to their taste; they rejoice if once thou be humble enough to be frivolous.
What we recognise in a man, we also irritate in him. Therefore be on your guard against the small ones!
In thy presence they feel themselves small, and their baseness gleameth and gloweth against thee in invisible vengeance.
Sawest thou not how often they became dumb when thou approachedst them, and how their energy left them like the smoke of an extinguishing fire?
Yea, my friend, the bad conscience art thou of thy neighbours; for they are unworthy of thee. Therefore they hate thee, and would fain suck thy blood.
Thy neighbours will always be poisonous flies; what is great in thee--that itself must make them more poisonous, and always more fly-like.
Flee, my friend, into thy solitude--and thither, where a rough strong breeze bloweth. It is not thy lot to be a fly-flap.--
Thus spake Zarathustra.