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xp_communication2004-07-16 12:54 pm
x-cable.livejournal.com) wrote in xp_communication2004-07-16 12:54 pm
Email to the Arabic class
To: [aalibaat]
From: [ustaathah]
Subject: reading for next week
I've decided to broaden your horizons a little further. Attached find the English translation of an excerpt of 'The Wine Ode' by Umar Ibn Al-Farid, a Sufi poet from the 12th/13th century. Read it carefully, because we're going to be looking at the original Arabic version come Monday.
Nathan
PS: Any smartass who reads this and claims I'm subliminally encouraging underage drinking will be treated to the spectacle of me coming down on them like a ton of bricks. Seriously.
In memory of the beloved
we drank a wine
we were drunk with it
before creation of the vine
The full moon its glass, the wine
a sun circled by a crescent
when it is mixed
how many stars appear!
If not for its bouquet,
I would not have found its tavern;
if not for its flashing gleam,
how could imagination picture it?
Time preserved nothing of it
save one last breath,
concealed like a secret
in the breasts of wise men.
But if it is recalled among the tribe,
the worthy ones
are drunk by morn
without sin or shame
From the depths of the jars
it arose, though truly,
nothing remained
save a name.
From: [ustaathah]
Subject: reading for next week
I've decided to broaden your horizons a little further. Attached find the English translation of an excerpt of 'The Wine Ode' by Umar Ibn Al-Farid, a Sufi poet from the 12th/13th century. Read it carefully, because we're going to be looking at the original Arabic version come Monday.
Nathan
PS: Any smartass who reads this and claims I'm subliminally encouraging underage drinking will be treated to the spectacle of me coming down on them like a ton of bricks. Seriously.
In memory of the beloved
we drank a wine
we were drunk with it
before creation of the vine
The full moon its glass, the wine
a sun circled by a crescent
when it is mixed
how many stars appear!
If not for its bouquet,
I would not have found its tavern;
if not for its flashing gleam,
how could imagination picture it?
Time preserved nothing of it
save one last breath,
concealed like a secret
in the breasts of wise men.
But if it is recalled among the tribe,
the worthy ones
are drunk by morn
without sin or shame
From the depths of the jars
it arose, though truly,
nothing remained
save a name.
Re: reading for next week
To: [Teach]
Sounds like they're drinking ceremonial wine during a funeral. Only I don't think that's it either. This is what really gives me the irrits about poetry. They never tell you what they mean, and almost everything you can think of could be a valid interpretation. Like, it was so invented by teachers...*grins and runs away*