A little bit of something for your day…..
I hope you enjoy!
Gwyllm
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On The Menu:
The Links
Alan Stivell..
Story Of The King Who Would See Paradise
A bit of Truth…
Poetry of the Diaspora: Vahan Tekeyan
Paintings: edward burne-jones
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The Links:
Earliest horse figures of Anatolia in Eskişehir
Study: College students get an A in narcissism
Sceptre from Roman emperor exhibited
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Alan Stivell..
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Story Of The King Who Would See Paradise
Once upon a time there was king who, one day out hunting, came upon a fakeer in a lonely place in the mountains. The fakeer was seated on a little old bedstead reading the Koran, with his patched cloak thrown over his shoulders.
The king asked him what he was reading; and he said he was reading about Paradise, and praying that he might be worthy to enter there. Then they began to talk, and, by-and- bye, the king asked the fakeer if he could show him a glimpse of Paradise, for he found it very difficult to believe in what he could not see. The fakeer replied that he was asking a very difficult, and perhaps a very dangerous, thing; but that he would pray for him, and perhaps he might be able to do it; only he warned the king both against the dangers of his unbelief, and against the curiosity which prompted him to ask this thing. However, the king was not to be turned from his purpose, and he promised the fakeer always to provided him with food, if he, in return, would pray for him. To this the fakeer agreed, and so they parted.
Time went on, and the king always sent the old fakeer his food according to his promise; but, whenever he sent to ask him when he was going to show him Paradise, the fakeer always replied: ‘Not yet, not yet!’
After a year or two had passed by, the king heard one day that the fakeer was very ill– indeed, he was believed to be dying. Instantly he hurried off himself, and found that it was really true, and that the fakeer was even then breathing his last. There and then the king besought him to remember his promise, and to show him a glimpse of Paradise. The dying fakeer replied that if the king would come to his funeral, and, when the grave was filled in, and everyone else was gone away, he would come and lay his hand upon the grave, he would keep his word, and show him a glimpse of Paradise. At the same time he implored the king not to do this thing, but to be content to see Paradise when God called him there. Still the king’s curiosity was so aroused that he would not give way.
Accordingly, after the fakeer was dead, and had been buried, he stayed behind when all the rest went away; and then, when he was quite alone, he stepped forward, and laid his hand upon the grave! Instantly the ground opened, and the astonished king, peeping in, saw a flight of rough steps, and, at the bottom of them, the fakeer sitting, just as he used to sit, on his rickety bedstead, reading the Koran!
At first the king was so surprised and frightened that he could only stare; but the fakeer beckoned to him to come down, so, mustering up his courage, he boldly stepped down into the grave.
The fakeer rose, and, making a sign to the king to follow, walked a few paces along a dark passage. Then he stopped, turned solemnly to his companion, and, with a movement of his hand, drew aside as it were a heavy curtain, and revealed–what? No one knows what was there shown to the king, nor did he ever tell anyone; but, when the fakeer at length dropped the curtain, and the king turned to leave the place, he had had his glimpse of Paradise! Trembling in every limb, he staggered back along the passage, and stumbled up the steps out of the tomb into the fresh air again.
The dawn was breaking. It seemed odd to the king that he had been so long in the grave. It appeared but a few minutes ago that he had descended, passed along a few steps to the place where he had peeped beyond the veil, and returned again after perhaps five minutes of that wonderful view! And what WAS it he had seen? He racked his brains to remember, but he could not call to mind a single thing! How curious everything looked too! Why, his own city, which by now he was entering, seemed changed and strange to him! The sun was already up when he turned into the palace gate and entered the public durbar hall. It was full; and there upon the throne sat another king! The poor king, all bewildered, sat down and stared about him. Presently a chamberlain came across and asked him why he sat unbidden in the king’s presence. ‘But I am the king!’ he cried.
‘What king?’ said the chamberlain.
‘The true king of this country,’ said he indignantly.
Then the chamberlain went away, and spoke to the king who sat on the throne, and the old king heard words like ‘mad,’ ‘age,’ ‘compassion.’ Then the king on the throne called him to come forward, and, as he went, he caught sight of himself reflected in the polished steel shield of the bodyguard, and started back in horror! He was old, decrepit, dirty, and ragged! His long white beard and locks were unkempt, and straggled all over his chest and shoulders. Only one sign of royalty remained to him, and that was the signet ring upon his right hand. He dragged it off with shaking fingers and held it up to the king.
‘Tell me who I am,’ he cried; ‘there is my signet, who once sat where you sit–even yesterday!’
The king looked at him compassionately, and examined the signet with curiosity. Then he commanded, and they brought out dusty records and archives of the kingdom, and old coins of previous reigns, and compared them faithfully. At last the king turned to the old man, and said: ‘Old man, such a king as this whose signet thou hast, reigned seven hundred years ago; but he is said to have disappeared, none know whither; where got you the ring?’
Then the old man smote his breast, and cried out with a loud lamentation; for he understood that he, who was not content to wait patiently to see the Paradise of the faithful, had been judged already. And he turned and left the hall without a word, and went into the jungle, where he lived for twenty-five years a life of prayer and meditations, until at last the Angel of Death came to him, and mercifully released him, purged and purified through his punishment.
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A bit of Truth…
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Poetry of the Diaspora: Vahan Tekeyan
The Lamp of the Illuminator
In the uncountable array of stars
there is one that is ours alone.
It fixes itself over Arakadz,
different and apart from the rest,
as if another hand hung it in secret
to give hope to Armenian eyes,
lit it from Gregory’s light,
filling it with tears not oil.
Just as the faithful each day
are energized by the sight
of the Ararat crest,
so they are strengthened at night
as the star brightens in their souls
growing, growing into a new sunrise.
—
The Beautiful Ones
The beautiful one is always she who walked past you one day
And anointed your eyes- a divine visitor,
You failed to turn and look back at such beauty,
And you did not wish to meet her again.
The beautiful one is forever, always and ever,
She who grew into grace under the warmth of your eyes,
Who swayed like a flower in the sweet spring winds,
And when you went away, she stayed always fresh in your mind, ever fragrant
And the beautiful one- you know her delightful name-
Is she who might have loved you after all,
Who certainly guessed your love and waited eagerly for you,
But she is one whose heart it`s just as well you did not wound-
Ah, the beautiful ones are only they who through your desires
Came and went away, but who call you now from afar…
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To the Reader
My soul belongs to me no matter how I offer pieces
to strangers passing by, on every page.
My soul belongs to me, no one can recognize it whole
with its formidable darkness and blinding lights.
Like the unstripped mine for gold, coal, or perhaps lead
the dredging has bared only the first layer
of joys, and the black floodwaters of pain.
A deeper volcano rumbles underneath it all.
My soul is that mine, only partially excavated.
Who knows how many new pains will burrow
and shaft, blast by blast? It belongs to me.
Today 1 regret that so many samples were passed
to onlookers when I intended all the while
to give it whole, only to one or two.
—
Vahan Tekeyan
(1878-1948)
Vahan Tekeyan was known as a perfectionist, because he always looked for the precise word. He was born in Istanbul in 1978 and educated in the Armenian schools there. His first poems were collected and published in 1901. Besides his own books, he published translations of French symbolist poetry and the sonnets of Shakespeare. The sonnet remained his favorite form.
During the 1896 persecutions, Tekeyan left Istanbul for Europe. He returned, but subsequently settled in Egypt, where he was active in Armenian political life and edited the Armenian newspaper, Arev.
His books are “Burdens” (1901), “The Wonderful Rebirth” (1914), “From Midnight Until Dawn” (1918), “Love” (1933), “Armenian Songs” (1943), and “Book of Odes” (1944).
