God’s Fool

Sunday Evening…

I have been editing The Invisible College… close now. I have been very busy with business, to the detriment of the magazine, but clients… you know how it goes. Soon though, probably towards the end of this week for the on-line version. We will have 2 versions, the on-line version which is smaller, and the print version, larger. Details to follow in the next few days.
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Hope you had a pleasant week-end!
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God’s Fool

Poetry:Drunk on the Wine of the Beloved (Poetry of Hafiz)

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Awesome Or Off-Putting: The Mongolian Death Worm

Sleights of Mind

Tara ruins must be preserved – report




God’s Fool

-Kahlil Gibran
Once there came from the desert to the great city of Sharia a man who was a dreamer, and he had naught but his garment and staff.
And as he walked through the streets he gazed with awe and wonder at the temples and towers and palaces, for the city of Sharia was of surpassing beauty. And he spoke often to the passers-by, questioning them about their city – but they understood not his language, nor he their language.
At the noon hour he stopped before a vast inn. It was built of yellow marble, and people were going in and coming out unhindered.
“This must be a shrine,’ he said to himself, and he too went in. But what was his surprise to find himself in a hall of great splendour and a large company of men and women seated about many tables. They were eating and drinking and listening to the musicians.
‘Nay,’ said the dreamer. ‘This is no worshipping. It must be a feast given by the prince to the people, in celebration of a great event.’
At that moment a man, whom he took to be the slave of the prince, approached him, and bade him be seated. And he was served with meat and wine and most excellent sweets.
When he was satisfied, the dreamer rose to depart. At the door he was stopped by a large man magnificently arrayed.
‘Surely this is the prince himself,’ said the dreamer in his heart, and he bowed to him and thanked him.
Then the large man said in the language of the city:
‘Sir, you have not paid for your dinner.’ And the dreamer did not understand, and again thanked him heartily. Then the large man bethought him, and he looked more closely upon the dreamer. And he saw that he was a stranger, clad in but a poor garment, and that indeed he had not wherewith to pay for his meal. Then the large man clapped his hands and called – and there came four watchmen of the city. And they listened to the large man. Then they took the dreamer between them, and they were two on each side of him. And the dreamer noted the ceremoniousness of their dress and of their manner and he looked upon them with delight. ‘These,’ said he, ‘are men of distinction.’
And they walked all together until they came to the House of Judgement and they entered.
The dreamer saw before him, seated upon a throne, a venerable man with flowing beard, robed majestically. And he thought he was the king. And he rejoiced to be brought before him.
Now the watchmen related to the judge, who was the venerable man, the charge against the dreamer, and the judge appointed two advocates, one to present the charge and the other to defend the stranger. And the advocates rose, the one after the other, and delivered each his argument. And the dreamer thought himself to be listening to addresses of welcome, and his heart filled with gratitude to the king and the prince for all that was done for him.
Then sentence was passed upon the dreamer, that upon a tablet about his neck his crime should be written, and that he should ride through the city on a naked horse, with a trumpeter and a drummer before him. And the sentence was carried out forthwith.
Now as the dreamer rode through the city upon the naked horse, with the trumpeter and the drummer before him, the inhabitants of the city came running forth at the sound of the noise, and when they saw him they laughed one and all, and the children ran after him in companies from street to street. And the dreamer’s heart was filled with ecstasy, and his eyes shone upon them. For to him the tablet was a sign of the king’s blessing and the procession was in his honour.
Now as he rode, he saw among the crowd a man who was from the desert like himself and his heart swelled with joy, and he cried out to him with a shout:
‘Friend! Friend! Where are we? What city of the heart’s desire is this? What race of lavish hosts, who feast the chance guest in their palaces, whose princes companion him, whose kings hangs a token upon his breast and opens to him the hospitality of a city descended from heaven?’
And he who was also of the desert replied not. He only smiled and slightly shook his head. And the procession passed on. And the dreamer’s face was uplifted and his eyes were overflowing with light.

Poetry:Drunk on the Wine of the Beloved (Poetry of Hafiz)

Look at This Beauty
The beauty of this poem is beyond words.

Do you need a guide to experience the heat of the sun?
Blessed is the brush of the painter who paints

Such beautiful pictures for his virgin bride.
Look at this beauty. There is no reason for what you see.

Experience its grace. Even in nature there is nothing so fine.
Either this poem is a miracle, or some sort of magic trick.

Guided either by Gabriel or the Invisible Voice, inside.
No one, not even Hafiz, can describe with words the Great Mystery.

No one knows in which shell the priceless pearl does hide.

Writing in Code
O morning breeze, bring your happy face as soon as you can

To the Beloved’s Street!
You are the Messenger of Mystery, and now I know I am on the

Right path. So don’t give me orders, but urge me gently on.
Winebringer, give me some of your reddest wine.

As my soul is slipping from my hands.
Let me tie all my hope to Your woven gold belt.

This diet of reason I’ve been on has led me nowhere.

That waistline of Yours traces a divine subtlety. Now I know.
From where I sit, the sight of Your sword is a sure sign of drought,

So take me captive and slay me with water and buckets of ice.
I have written these words in code, made only for Your eyes.

Please take them, and read them right away!
For Hafiz, speaking Turkish and Arabic are like talking in the same tongue:

He tells Love’s story in every language that he knows!

A rose that isn’t the Beloved’s face is worthless;

A spring that is not made of wine is worthless too.
The fences around the fields and the breeze blowing in gardens

Without the Beloved’s tulip cheek are worth nothing and without grace.
What use are sugary lips and roses that look like God,

Without His kiss or smothering embrace?
The dance of the swaying cypress and the rapture of the rose,

Without the nightingale’s songs, are worthless.
O gardener, every picture that the hands of intellect have drawn

Is useless unless they have traced Your face.
So, if you are drinking wine or sitting in the garden with roses

Instead of seeking the Beloved, then you are wasting time.
Hafiz, your life is nothing more than a tarnished old coin,

Traded again and again for others to deface. Don’t you have

Something better you can do?

-All Poems Translated by Thomas Rain Crowe

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