Richard Brodie

Anagrammy Awards > Literary Archives > Richard Brodie

Original text in yellow, anagram in pink.

A selection of quatrains from Edward Fitzgerald's translation of the Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám.

Lo! some we loved, the loveliest and best
That Time and Fate of all their Vintage prest,
Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,
And one by one crept silently to Rest.

Those I've adored that born to freedom's Hope,
Know not a Course but "Carpe Diem!", They've
Life's Bottle tasted fervently till All
Turn in to sleep, and now are in the Grave.

Oh, Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst make,
And who with Eden didst devise the Snake;
For all the Sin wherewith the Face of Man
Is blacken'd, Man's Forgiveness give - and take!

When Heaven did feed a wicked Satan's Glee
Must I that Hearth in Hades seek to fan?
No, from the wretched Shame of evil Works
With Kindness fair, I absolve both God and Man!

AWAKE! for Morning in the Bowl of Night
Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight:
And Lo! the Hunter of the East has caught
The Sultan's Turret in a Noose of Light.

Apollo hefts that Gauntlet high, and throws!
That Artemis affronting Gesture's Sight
Thrusts out anon her Tent of Black. Ah too,
The Sun effulgent shone, in Halo White.

A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread, - and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness -
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!

A Poem, and Trees a-blowing in a wind.
A Brew I'll Drink - base Needs of other Stuff
Ignore. Ah see here how we do behave,
Indeed for us, a song is just enough.

Then to the rolling Heav'n itself I cried,
Asking, "What Lamp had Destiny to guide
"Her little Children stumbling in the Dark?"
And - "A blind Understanding!" Heav'n replied.

I'd seek a Lord transcendent, that all Things
Can plan - He'd end intending Virtue bright?
"If all Men grovel badly in rude Sin,
"Wilt Thou, kind-hearted, help?" - He said, "I might."

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.

No Mark when put into that Log of Life,
Will vary, it's inviolate - is unchanged!
A Cry shall not revise thy total Worth,
Nor on a Whim will Facts be rearranged.

None answer'd this; but after Silence spake
A Vessel of a more ungainly Make:
"They sneer at me for leaning all awry."
What! did the Hand then of the Potter shake?

Heed the shy Urn that, leaning awkward there,
Laments: "O No! Why me? for Heaven's sake!
"Of any and all Hope bereft?" - It seems
A gentle Artist finer Pains could take.

Alas, that Spring should vanish with the Rose!
That Youth's sweet-scented Manuscript should close!
The Nightingale that in the Branches sang,
Ah, whence, and whither flown again, who knows!

How wrong! when Instinct's Hand a Man at Birth
Clothes with hot, pure, and wistful Passion high,
Then Age wreaks all that windy Havoc's Change.
Ah, the stern, senseless Thought: the Soul can die!

Oh, plagued no more with Human or Divine,
To-morrow's Tangle to itself resign,
And lose your Fingers in the Tresses of
The Cypress-slender Minister of Wine.

To worry of men's Pedigrees? Do not!
Or of their Righteousness, their Sins mundane.
I'll fete the Women in Seraglios;
Let's drown in lusty Rivers of Champagne!

Do you, within your little Hour of Grace,
The waving Cypress in your Arms enlace,
Before the Mother back into her Arms
Fold, and dissolve you in a last Embrace.

Ere you by Charon to a frigid Realm
Of Death are ferried by his Ark, thy Chance
Lose not to revel in Love's sumptuous Glow,
Warm Sensibility, and Touch - Romance!

Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring
The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To fly - and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.

I'd beg a sip, if it be April grape,
Romancing life before its thrill doth melt.
Youth in the wind can flutter off, O then
No new enchantment with dry age's felt.

I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;
That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropt in its Lap from some once lovely Head.

It seems, when in a shaded silent Park,
That every Blossom, every Chaplet's Bud,
Grows rather more attractive to Man's Eye
On Soil enriched here with famed Heroes' Blood.

Ah, but my Computations, People say,
Have squared the Year to human compass, eh?
If so, by striking from the Calendar
Unborn To-morrow and dead Yesterday.

Equations cubic do my hard Proofs solve!
But how may Man's poor Path make any Sense?
Oh by my "Hard Ordeal Theorem" try
Eradicating past and future Tense.

Why, be this Juice the growth of God, who dare
Blaspheme the twisted Tendril as Snare?
A Blessing, we should use it, should we not?
And if a Curse - why, then, Who set it there?

Hiss at the Grape, God's Gift to us with which
We wash the wounded Heart? Let's not! Indeed,
We shed our Torments. Ah, her blissful Joy!
The curly Bine's a Weal - This be no Weed!

What! out of senseless Nothing to provoke
A conscious Something to resent the Yoke
Of unpermitted Pleasure, under Pain
Of Everlasting Penalties, if broke!

So! tease and offer Men the keen Enticing
To seek for Love yet punishing, suppress?
O this, it looks to be one utter wanting,
Cold Formula to reave our Happiness!

Return to Richard Brodie Index

Return to Poem Page


Updated: May 10, 2016


Home

 | The Anagrammy Awards | Enter the Forum | Facebook | The Team

Information

 | Awards Rules | Forum FAQ | Anagrams FAQ | History | Articles

Resources

 | Anagram Artist Software | Generators | On-line | Books | Websites

Archives

 | Winners | Nominations | Hall of Fame | Anagrammasia | Literary | Specials

Competition

 | Vote | Current Nominations | Leader Board | Latest Results | Old Results | Rankings

Miscellaneous

 | Tribute Page | Records | Sitemap | Search | Anagram Checker | Email Us | Donate

Anagrammy Awards

  © 1998-2024